


The Blessing Repaid

by annathaema (moony)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Cats, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I wasn't kidding about the tropes, M/M, Muslim Character, Muslim Otabek Altin, Mutual Pining, Pining, Ramadan, Saint Petersburg, Slow Burn, Victor Nikiforov Being Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, Yuri Is Legal, abuse of languages, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-07 15:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11626233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/annathaema
Summary: Yuri is waiting for him in baggage claim at Pulkovo, clad in a clingy Babymetal t-shirt and dark skinny jeans. He’s a little taller but not by much; it seems to be his destiny to remain short, though he has filled out a little. He’s still lithe as hell but there’s a bit more definition to his chest and upper arms. His hair is longer and he has it pulled back in a messy French braid.Otabek swallows hard.- - -This is a story about boys, cats, dogs, birds, Japanese food, kvass, Ramadan, video games, dates (the fruit), and I suppose there's ice skating in there somewhere.





	1. Prologue: Freedom Song

**Author's Note:**

> I debated writing Otabek as Muslim (I am not Muslim), but I thought it would be cowardly to erase that aspect of his character - even if it's just fanon (for now). It wouldn't be fanon if it wasn't important to a lot of people, so it is unfair to ignore it or pretend it doesn't exist, and when the story came together for me it was just a given that he is Muslim. Full stop, no arguments. I had a lot of help from my beta-readers who thoroughly vetted this work for me and gave me tons of information about Islam (specifically Ramadan) that I incorporated into the story in a way I hope is accurate and respectful. 
> 
> This takes place in the show's magical universe where nobody cares if you're gay. 
> 
> Beta-read by Jenni, Miranda, Lily, Fiona, Amber, and Mariam. Thanks fam.
> 
> Here goes.

Қасқырды қанша асырасаң да тауға қарап ұлиды.

_No matter how much you train the wolf, he still looks at the mountains and howls._

 

—2005—

 

At eight years old, Otabek had a tropical bird named Luba. She was the first thing Otabek can remember loving other than his parents and sisters. She was not a nice bird; she liked to nip your fingers if you got too close (Otabek being the exception — she tolerated him fine), but she was a beautiful pale gray, and her bright eyes were ringed in black. She was a striking creature, and Otabek’s mother would often say that Luba wasn’t a bird at all but perhaps an  _ifritah_ , and even though Otabek was sure she was joking, his mother treated Luba with respect not normally afforded pet birds. It was odd, but Otabek didn’t question it. It’s not like he didn’t treat Luba the same way. They all did.

Luba hated her cage. When his parents and sisters were busy elsewhere, Otabek would shut his bedroom door and open her cage to let her out. Luba would waste no time; she’d bolt for the cage door and fly around the room twice before settling on top of the wardrobe. Otabek would then sit on his bed with his DS and catch Pokémon while Luba chirruped in the background. It was nice, just a boy and his bird, whiling away the afternoon together. Otabek loved it.

One day, Luba was out of her cage and perched on the wardrobe, singing her same little song — sharp and bright, with a little melancholy to it. Otabek was sprawled across his bed, controller in his hand and his eyes focused on  _Kingdom Hearts_. He didn’t realize he’d forgotten to lock the door until his eldest sister Nurhan burst into the room suddenly, without knocking. Luba, startled, immediately took flight, soaring through the doorway and out into the hall. Nurhan shrieked and flailed her arms in an attempt to catch her, but Luba angled her body just out of reach and passed by in a blur of feathers.

Before Otabek could chase after her, Luba flew through a window someone had left open, and was gone.

Otabek was inconsolable. Despite his family’s attempts to assure him that Luba was off living with the other birds, happy and free, he mourned Luba as though she had died and sulked around the house for days.

“You can’t keep a creature like that in a cage, күнім,” said his mother, sitting beside him on his bed and petting his hair as though he were an anxious cat. “I was only a little bit joking when I said I thought she wasn’t really a bird. She was something else. She wanted to be free.”

“I miss her,” sniffled Otabek. “ _Анам_ , I was really good to her, wasn’t I?”

His mother used her sleeve to swipe away his tears. “And she was good to you in return,” she said. “Remember? Only you. She could have escaped earlier, but she didn't, and I think it was because of you,  _күнім_. This was just an opportunity she couldn't pass up.” She started petting his hair again. “She was grateful to you for understanding her and what kind of bird she was. You took care of her better than any of us, and in her own weird way she loved you for it. That’s very valuable, Beka. Treasure it."

She hugs him close. "Your love was a blessing to her, darling, and it will be repaid one day."

Otabek didn’t really understand what that meant, but his mother said it with such reverence that he nodded solemnly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll remember.”

Once his mother had gone, he lay awake in his bed, staring at the top of the wardrobe where Luba had liked to perch. He imagined he could hear her little melody, only now it was different. He couldn’t figure out why it was different, he just knew that it was. He struggled to understand, but eventually wore himself out and drifted to sleep, the new melody ringing in his head.

Eventually, he stopped thinking about it so much, though he never forgot his magnificent friend. He knew that somewhere, Luba was perched up high, singing her freedom song.

It would have to be enough.


	2. Time Off

— Early Summer, 2019 —

 

Luba The Second jumps down off the bed and half-heartedly bats at her feathered bird toy. The soft  _ting_ of the bell inside makes Otabek look up from his phone and smile down at her.

“Ah, she lives,” he says, reaching down to brush his fingers over the top of her head. She starts to purr, so he holds his phone out of the way and gestures for her to jump up into his lap. She accepts his invitation and leaps up, settling between his legs, purring steadily and kneading his thigh with claws that are just shy of too sharp.

Otabek returns to his phone and his Instagram feed. There’s nothing new of note, photos of sunsets and food and whatever the hell Weir is wearing today, until Otabek scrolls down to a new photo of Yuri’s cat. It’s not much different than all the other photos of her that he posts — she’s curled on her back with her paws in the air — but Yuri is like a doting parent who thinks everything his child does is significant. His fans think it’s adorable; Otabek finds it endearing.

The cat’s pretty cute, too.

Otabek taps Like on the photo. He adds a comment:

 **otabek-altin**  nice selfie

He is about to put his phone away when it lights up with a notification:

 **yuri-plisetsky** i wish

It’s only 8pm in Saint Petersburg, so Otabek finds Yuri in his recents and presses CALL.

“Why aren’t you fucking asleep?” Yuri demands as soon as he picks up. “What is it, after eleven there?”

“I’ve got a month off practice, so no need for such an early bedtime,” says Otabek, leaning back in his chair.

“The fuck? A month off?”

Otabek scratches Luba behind the ears. “Ramadan,” he says. “My coach thinks it would be a bad idea to fast and train at the same time. I just had the flu for most of the last two weeks — I’m not really in top shape right now.”

“Oh. Huh.” Yuri sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t know you did, um. Religious stuff.”

“Mm. Sometimes,” says Otabek. “The big stuff, mostly. I'm not good at it. My parents aren’t really devout or anything, so I’m not either. But I’m doing it this year because I think I need to.” He’s suddenly a bit shy; he never talks about this stuff with anyone but his family — but it’s  _Yuri_ , and he's never expected Yuri to ask him about this at all, so Otabek presses on. “I need some humility. I need a reboot. I need to think about things other than skating. You know what I mean?”

“No.” There are crunching sounds. Yuri must be making his way through a bag of crisps. “So what’s your coach going to do?”

Otabek smiles. “She’s in Bali right now, so I’d guess she’s fine.” Yuri huffs a laugh. “A month away isn’t going to ruin everything. I can still skate a bit, but only for a little while a day, and nothing heavy-duty, like quads or spins.”

“A whole month off,” says Yuri, a little reverently. Otabek doesn’t think Yuri has ever had that much free time. “What are you going to do?”

Otabek is a little startled by Yuri's question; it's not one Yuri's ever asked before. He gets up (Luba jumps down with a disgruntled meow) and goes to the balcony door, sliding it open and stepping out into the warm night. The stars are out, but because of the lights of Almaty he can only see the really bright ones and the planets. The moon hangs low and fat in the sky.

“I'm taking classes at KNU,” say Otabek, leaning on the railing. “They’re online, so I won’t have to have to stop once I start training again, and I'm only taking a couple, but that should keep me busy enough."

Yuri makes a disgruntled noise. “Why are you bothering with that shit?”

“Because skating isn’t forever,” says Otabek. “I'll need to do something with myself after I retire.”

“You’re a fucking world champion,” spits Yuri. “You have an Olympic medal. You don’t need to go to fucking school. Just do ice shows and be a commentator or something. Or coach, for fuck's sake — if Victor can do it, you can.”

Otabek sighs. “Maybe skating isn’t the only thing I want to do, Yura.”

Yuri sniffs. “What are you even studying?”

“Physics.”

“The fuck?” Yuri says, his voice shrill. Otabek holds the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Охуе́ть, are you  _smart_ or something?”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean, I've known you for like four years — how did I not know you’re a nerd?” Yuri sounds incredulous. “Did you trick me into thinking you were cool?”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “You caught me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Yuri. There’s a distant meow in the background. “Potya says hello.”

“Luba says hello as well."

They are silent for a moment, not awkward but companionable, something they've always been able to do ; when you're sure of someone, it's okay to be quiet together. Sometimes at competitions they find each other and retreat to somewhere isolated, like someone’s hotel room, to just sit and  _be_. Yuri will dick around on the internet, Otabek will catch Pokémon on his ancient DS. It's good. It grounds them, and it's a way for Otabek to keep Yuri in his sights during their brief moments together.

“You should come here," Yuri says suddenly, in a decisive tone, as though the matter has already been presented, discussed, and settled..

Otabek blinks, knocked right out of his thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

“Come here. To SPb.” Yuri’s voice has the same tone as usual — brusque and defiant — but there’s uncertainty behind it. “Don’t just sit alone on your ass in your flat the whole time. Come out here and hang out with actual people. Meaning me.”

“I’m not lonely or anything,” Otabek protests weakly, but he knows it won’t do any good up against Yuri once he’s got his mind on something. "I have Luba. The boys. My parents live less than an hour away. I have  _four sisters._ "

Yuri  _tsks_. “Okay, okay, fine,” he says. “ _I’m_ lonely, I don't have another ice show until July, I'm bored as fuck, and if you’re not going to be practicing for a month you might as well come here and entertain me.”

It’s no small thing that Yuri admits to being lonely. He’d rather stop skating entirely than show weakness to anyone, but Otabek has been an exception to that rule for a while now. Behind closed doors, Yuri is funny and affectionate, and Otabek recognizes the value in being privy to that side of him. He wonders if Victor and Katsuki have ever seen Yuri's private nature. A small, jealous part of him hopes they haven't — he’d rather it be reserved for just him and no one else.

“It's White Nights, so we could do that if you wanted. You can do your lessons here, and Ramadan stuff, right?” demands Yuri, when Otabek is quiet for too long.

“Yeah,” says Otabek, a little playfully. “Other people somehow manage to do  _Ramadan stuff_ while traveling all over the world. You should ask Zahra Lari about it sometime."

“Fuck off.”

“Mmmhm.” Otabek thinks. “Would I be staying with you?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Yuri with a snort. “I’ve got a pretty good couch. It’s Victor’s old one, which means it’s all posh and shit. I sleep on it sometimes because my bed’s too fucking soft.”

“I’d have to see if my parents are alright with it,” says Otabek.

“You’re a fucking adult, why do you have to ask your parents?”

“I help out sometimes with my little sisters when they’re away, when the  _au pair_ needs a day off. I can’t just up and leave without checking to see if they might need me.”

Yuri snorts. “Fine. Whatever. If they say it’s cool, are you gonna come out here?”

Otabek looks around his flat. It’s small and he likes it that way, however despite what he’d said earlier, Yuri is right: he is lonely. His family is big but busy — his sisters are all in varying stages of school (or married, in Nurhan's case), his mother works long hours at the hospital, and his father is in Dubai more often than not — so he doesn’t see them as often as he’d like. His friends are great, he’s known them since they were children together, but they don’t really know him off the street and out of the clubs. They know about the skating; there's no way  _not_ to know about the so-called  _Hero of Kazakhstan,_ especially after PyeongChang. He gets a little grief for it but they're generally supportive, or they just don’t care at all. But he can’t talk to them about it. They don’t understand it.

But Yuri does.

"Please?" says Yuri quietly, and that's that. Otabek's done for.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll come.”


	3. Saint Petersburg

Otabek’s parents have no problem with him going to Saint Petersburg for the month. If Otabek didn’t know better, he’d think they _wanted_ him gone for a while. His mother even comes over to help him pack. He’s a little insulted.

“Am I being banished?” he asks her. She sits on his bed, and Otabek is trying very hard to ignore the fact that she’s folding his underwear. “If I’m being banished, tell me now so I can make arrangements to move to Italy and herd goats." He smirks. "It's my lifelong dream. The skating is just a hobby until I achieve my goatherd goals."

“Oh, shut up,” she says, throwing a sock at him. “This will be so good for you, my love. You  _should_ do this kind of thing more often, traveling not just for skating.”

“I travel for fun,” he protests. "I went to Disneyland once, remember? And I stayed in Canada for an entire summer."

“Pft. How different is America from Canada, really? Big countries run by white people, whatever. It's all the same.” She finishes folding his underwear and starts tucking socks into his suitcase. “But Saint Petersburg!"

"Also in a big country run by white people."

"Shush." His mother flaps a hand at him. " _Saint Petersburg_ is a  _romantic_ place.”

Otabek drops his DS, startling both his mother and Luba. The cat lifts her head long enough to level a dirty look at him before laying back down again. He quickly picks up the DS and inspects it for damage.

“Have you been watching  _Anastasia_ with Tursanay again?” he asks evenly.

His mother laughs. “Just promise me you’ll take lots of photos and send them to me,” she says. “Especially of you and Yuri.”

Otabek hopes the heat he feels in his cheeks isn’t visible. He picks up a t-shirt to fold. “That’ll be easy. He loves selfies.”

“Good,” she says. “Then perhaps I’ll have some more pictures of my only son. Since he refuses to give me anything other than promotional shots.”

“Анам—“

“Selfies.” She points at him. “At least one a week. That is my condition for letting you go, yes?”

Otabek sighs, holds out his hand. “Deal.”

“Good.” They shake on it. “Now, go break it to your sisters that you’re abandoning them for a month.”

“Анам.”

—

The flight to Moscow is for the most part uneventful. Otabek has to hoof it to his connection at Sheremetyevo but he makes it just in time, breathing hard as he sinks into his seat. A sympathetic flight attendant brings him water before they’ve even taken off; he's grateful.

He’s got Luba in her carrier. She’s curled up in it, periodically making the most pitiful little noises Otabek’s ever heard her make. He stows her under the seat in front of him, taking a moment to ease the flap down just enough to skritch her ears before zipping up the carrier again.

Yuri is waiting for him in baggage claim at Pulkovo, clad in a clingy Babymetal t-shirt and dark skinny jeans. He’s a little taller but not by much; it seems to be his destiny to remain short, though he has filled out a little. He’s still lithe as hell but there’s a bit more definition to his chest and upper arms. His hair is longer and he has it pulled back in a messy French braid.

Otabek swallows hard.

“Hey, old man.” Yuri grins as Otabek approaches, Luba’s carrier in one hand, the handle of his rolling suitcase in the other. “About time you showed up.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Otabek lets go of the suitcase long enough to give Yuri a one-armed hug, even though he knows Yuri will likely shove him away because they’re in public. Surprisingly, Yuri meets him halfway, with his arms open. Yuri has obviously missed him more than he let on, if he’s willing to engage in a blatant Public Display of Affection. Despite the fact that it's too brief (and a little uncomfortable, thanks to Yuri's pointy elbows) it's a good hug. Yuri even gives Otabek an extra squeeze at the end.

As Otabek pulls away however, a more typical Yuri resurfaces and makes a face at the other passengers milling about around them, waiting for their luggage. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, already,” he snarls. “It smells like other people.”

Yuri doesn’t have a car, so they take the bus from the airport to a tram station just across the road from Yuri’s flat. "Is the rink far from here?” Otabek asks as they walk up to the building.

“Two tram stops,” says Yuri. He unlocks the front door and leads Otabek to the lifts, punching the UP button. “I usually run there, though. Victor takes the tram because he’s lazy now. You should see him, he’s got a belly.” He pats his own stomach, flat as can be, and giggles. “Katsudon might be a pain in the ass, but he can cook pretty good, I guess.”

“They live nearby, don’t they?” In the lift, Yuri presses the button for the 10th floor. “You said they’re always harassing you about coming over for dinner.” Otabek grins. “You go over there a lot more often than you tell me you do, don’t you.”

Yuri’s face goes a bit pink. “Shut up,” he says. “Like you’d turn down a free meal.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go,” says Otabek. “I’m implying that you  _like_ going.”

“Oh my  _God_ , shut  _up_.” The doors open and Yuri yanks him out of the lift and down the hall. He stops at a door painted bright blue and digs in his pocket. The cat charm dangling from his key is the one Otabek had sent him for his seventeenth birthday, and something warm unfurls deep in Otabek’s chest when he sees it. The corners of his mouth twitch up into an involuntary smile.

“What?”

Yuri’s looking at him quizzically.

Otabek shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“Okay whatever, weirdo,” Yuri says. He keys open the door and waves Otabek inside. “Here it is."

Whatever Otabek is expecting, it isn’t this. The flat is high-ceilinged, cluttered, and cozy. It looks more like a  _home_ than Otabek’s flat ever could. The living room is full of armchairs and a very expensive-looking couch, Victor’s old one Yuri had said. There are knit blankets and soft pillows everywhere — Otabek suspects they've come from Yuri's grandfather. The walls are papered with Instagram photos printed out and taped up. Otabek recognizes a few of them as his own (mostly of Luba and a couple of the sunrise over Pik Talgar), but most of them are of Potya, or stray cats from around Yuri's neighborhood. There are a  _lot_ of cat photos on the wall.

The wall facing the kitchen, however, looks to bear what has to be every single medal Yuri has ever won. There’s also a glass case full of trophies from his junior competitions, and framed certificates adorn the hallway. The apartment looks like a shrine to Yuri’s career, which would be very Yuri. He’s proud of his accomplishments, Otabek knows, and Yuri likes to be reminded of what he’s capable of. It’s not hubris. It's reassurance. It's Yuri's proof that he is, in fact, good at something. It's history of his own making.

“Huh.” Otabek abandons his suitcase and sets Luba’s carrier down on the floor. Behind him, Yuri has closed the door and is kicking off his shoes. Otabek does the same.

“Let’s put Luba in the bathroom for now,” says Yuri. “I’ve got food and shit in there for her already.”

“Sure.” Otabek follows Yuri down the hall to a small bathroom. There are two little dishes of dry food and water on the floor by the tub. There’s even a litter box hidden behind the toilet.

“Sometimes I think you’re only friends with me because of my cat,” says Otabek, fond. He unzips the carrier and puts it down, stepping back into the hall and shutting the door quickly.

"That is  _exactly_ the reason I am friends with you," says Yuri. “‘She and Potya can play footsie under the door for a while. 'Til they get used to each other again.”

“Luba probably remembers her from when you visited.”

“Tcha, that was like a year ago,” says Yuri. “So that’s it,” he says, throwing himself into a squishy green armchair by the television. He puts his feet up on the wobbly coffee table. “That’s my place. It’s, like, honestly kind of weird having you in it.”

“I felt the same when you visited me,” says Otabek. He sinks into the couch with a huff. “Wow, this  _is_ nice.”

“Fucking Victor. He’s an idiot, but he has good taste.” Yuri frowns. “Except for Katsudon.”

“Katsuki’s not that bad, you know.” Otabek leans back and closes his eyes. The couch is a relief after several hours spent in airline seats. “The only thing he ever really did to you was fail out of the GPF, and that wasn’t actually intentional.”

“He could have done better! But he didn’t!” Yuri huffs. “His performance was so awful, I was offended. It was literally an insult.”

“He has a bronze medal from the Olympics.”

“He could have had a _gold_ one.”

It’s a familiar old argument, but it’s also strangely fun so Otabek decides to keep it going, tease Yuri a little. He's missed the sputtering. “So, you would have given up your gold to him?”

“No!” Yuri picks up an errant cat toy and tosses it at him. It bounces off Otabek’s knee and disappears under the coffee table. “I mean— He could have tried harder to beat me! It wasn’t even a  _challenge_.”

"So you want him to win gold medals, but not be better than you."

"I fucking hate your face."

Otabek shrugs and holds up his hands in mock surrender. “He seems happy with where he is,” he says. “Just saying.”

Yuri slumps in the chair. “He’s an idiot, and so is Victor. They  _belong_ together.”

Otabek’s stomach picks that moment to growl audibly.

“Do you want— oh, wait. You can’t eat anything, can you.”

“Not until after sundown,” says Otabek. “But I’m fine for now.”

“Weird,” says Yuri without thinking. “I mean— shit. It’s not  _weird_ , I just—“

Otabek chuckles. “Relax,” he says. “It’s weird to you, and that’s okay. It’s not like you don’t do weird stuff, too.”

“Like what!” Yuri doesn’t sound offended so much as genuinely curious. “What’s weird that  _I_ do?”

“You pull people’s ears on their birthdays,” says Otabek with a smirk. “It’s tradition?”

“Well, yes!” Yuri sputters. “Everyone knows that.”

“And it’s  _weird_.” Otabek leans forward and fishes the cat toy out from under the coffee table, flinging it back in Yuri’s direction. Yuri hisses and bats it away. “Do you remember PyeongChang, when you shouted at Victor for whistling indoors?”

“It’s bad luck,” says Yuri stubbornly. “He should  _know_ better.” At the sound of the cat toy jingling across the floor, Potya makes her entrance. She swans into the room, all fluff and attitude, sniffing at the air. When she spots Otabek she comes straight over and begins rubbing against his legs, her purr a steady thrum against his shin.

“She only does that to you.” Yuri picks up the toy and shakes it, trying to entice her to come to him. He should sound annoyed, but instead he sounds almost pleased. “She hates everyone else.”

“I’m the cat whisperer,” says Otabek, reaching down to pet her. He gets her behind the ears, and the purring grows so loud she’s starting to squeak on the inhale.

“Fuck you,  _I’m_ the cat whisperer,” says Yuri. He tosses the toy when it becomes apparent that Potya is more interested in being pet than playing. “You’re using your, whatever, Kazakh charm on her.”

Otabek looks up. “What?” he says, and he can’t help but laugh. “ _Kazakh_   _charm_?”

“I don’t know!” Yuri throws up his hands in defeat, flushed and flustered. “Shut up!”

“ _Kazakh charm_.”

“Okay,  _anyway_ ,” says Yuri, when Otabek finally stops laughing. “I’m starving. Is it gonna, um, fuck you up if I make a sandwich?”

“Do what you need to do,” he says. “I can’t just  _avoid_ other people eating, or I’d never be able to leave the house.” He raises one eyebrow and smirks at Yuri. “I  _have_ done this before, you know.”

“Okay, okay, whatever.” Yuri gets up and goes into the kitchen. Otabek can hear the fridge door open and close, and the clattering of plates. Yuri starts humming; he’s been sending Otabek Youtube links to K-pop videos, and while Otabek doesn’t recognize this one, the melody is so catchy that it’s definitely going to be stuck in his head for the rest of the day.

Rather than sit alone in the living room staring at Potya, Otabek gets up to go hang out in the kitchen while Yuri fixes his lunch. “Do you mind?” he says, hovering the doorframe.

“Nah.” Yuri doesn’t look up from his sandwich project. “I felt kinda bad for leaving you alone in there anyway. Do whatever you want — my  _casa_ is your  _casa_?” He frowns. “ _Casa_ means house, right?”

“Yeah.” Otabek takes a look around. The kitchen contains mismatched plates and mugs, obviously secondhand but well-loved. There’s a kitten calendar tacked to the wall. The refrigerator is covered with magnets from all over the world as well as little sticky-notes scrawled in messy Cyrillic. It's nice, comfortable. Warm, like a kitchen should be.

"Sorry it's such a mess," says Yuri, shoving some plates from the countertop into the sink, which is already piled with dirty coffee mugs. "I was going to clean before you got here, but. I fell asleep, and then I forgot." He shrugs. "You don't mind, do you?"

"It's fine," says Otabek. "My kitchen usually isn't much better." He's too busy watching Yuri to care about the dishes, taking in all the little details: the curve of his shoulder in the thin t-shirt, the cascade of his pale hair down his back, curling slightly at the ends, his delicate and deft fingers as he smears something on seven-grain bread. Yuri is breathtaking, even in the dull light of his kitchen.

For Otabek, he’s always the brightest thing in the room.

Thinking of Yuri as beautiful is not a new thing — Yuri has  _always_ been beautiful — but the warm, sort of fizzy sensation churning in Otabek’s belly is a recent development. Perhaps because at nineteen Yuri is no longer the boy Otabek befriended, and ever since Yuri's visit to Almaty a year ago, Otabek has taken notice of it. He’s always loved Yuri’s personality, prickly as it is, so it’s nice that the rest of him has finally caught up.

Otabek doesn’t know when attraction turned into love, but he doesn’t really need to pinpoint it. It is what it is, and as nice as it would be to share it with Yuri, Otabek is not stupid. He has a decent sense of self-preservation, and he knows when not to poke the bear. If Otabek says anything, Yuri might react badly and then he’d be out of Otabek’s life for good, and that’s unacceptable. Otabek would sooner quit skating than risk that, so he keeps his mouth shut and his feelings to himself.

They’re fine the way they are. What Otabek wants is not relevant.

Yuri finishes making his sandwich and takes an enormous bite out it. “Mmf,” he says, chewing with his mouth open. It should be disgusting, but Otabek doesn’t really care. He’s held Yuri’s hair while he puked his guts out after a very intense post-Games party in the Village at PyeongChang. He’s seen Yuri ugly-sobbing on Skype after reading sad stories about rescue cats on Facebook. He’s seen Yuri’s feet after a competition, blistered and raw and oozing through the bandages. None of it fazes him; Yuri is always lovely, even when Otabek can see a half-chewed sandwich in his mouth.

“You get to eat later, you said?” asks Yuri, already halfway through his lunch. No one puts away food like Yuri Plisetsky. It's a little obscene.

“I’m good,” says Otabek. “Don’t worry.”

“Then come watch me play  _Wasteland 3_.” He takes another bite and moves past Otabek to go back to the living room. He forgoes a plate but scoops up a paper towel on his way. “You can play it too, if you want.”

Otabek follows him and returns to the couch, where Potya is waiting for him. As soon as he sits down she’s in his lap, kneading his leg the way Luba does. It’s natural to start petting her, and she relishes in the attention.

They spend a few hours playing various video games, trading the controller back and forth. The shadows in the room get longer, and eventually, when Yuri is over an hour into  _Persona 6_ , Otabek realizes they’ve lost track of the time. He checks his phone — it’s 11pm and the sun has finally set; he’d forgotten that Saint Petersburg is so far north and that there’s nearly endless daylight in the warmer months. That must be why he’s absolutely famished.

“Yura,” he says, nudging him in the side with his foot. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“What?” Yuri looks up. “Oh. Right.” He pauses the game and rolls over on his back to look up at him from upside-down. "What do you want?"

“There's traditional stuff you’re supposed to eat," says Otabek, rubbing his stomach. “But we can just get whatever. Honestly,” he says, with a sheepish smile, “I’ll take anything, at this point.”

“Cool." Yuri flips up onto his knees with more grace than should be allowed. "I know a good place that’s open all night, want to go there?"

Otabek nods. "Sure."

The "good place" turns out to be a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves traditional Russian fare. “I come here when I’m homesick,” says Yuri, pulling Otabek through the front door. “They make food like my grandpa makes.”

They sit by the window, where they can watch the White Nights crowds while they eat. The food is pretty good, and there’s even a dessert featuring dates on the menu, so Otabek gets that as well. “You’re supposed to break your fast with dates first,” he explains around his fork. The dessert — sort of like a brownie — is actually pretty good. “But I don’t think anyone is going to care if I do it backwards, this time.”

“Huh.” Yuri's halfway through his fish; he has sauce on his face. “We can pick up actual dates at the grocery after, if you want. There’s shops around the corner.” He takes another bite of his dinner and gets even more sauce on his face. “I need some crap too, anyway—“

Before he can stop himself, Otabek leans across the table and swipes Yuri’s face with his napkin before quickly pulling back. Much to his surprise, Yuri does not knock his hand away. Instead, he turns a dozen shades of red.

“Sorry,” says Otabek, though he’s not really  _that_ sorry. “It was distracting.”

 _It was an excuse to touch your face_ , he thinks.

“It’s fine,” says Yuri, and now Otabek knows something is up. Yuri would normally squawk at such a bold move, but instead he’s poking at his dinner, the corner of his mouth barely suggesting a smile. Even the tips of his ears are red. “I don’t wanna be a mess. We’re in public, so I bet someone’s probably going to take our photo before we leave.”

Otabek frowns. “Is it that bad here? For you?”

Yuri shrugs. “Not as bad as it is for Victor,” he says. “But the skating fans are pretty dedicated. And they’re  _everywhere_.” He shudders. “I’m pretty sure only the hockey players have it worse.”

“It’s not so bad in Almaty,” says Otabek. “I have fans, but they generally leave me alone. The newspaper likes to know what I’m up to, sometimes. And I did a couple of advertisements, and people recognize me from those, too.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see that Armani shit after you won Worlds,” smirks Yuri. “Shirt all hanging open, crap in your hair — you huge nerd.” He fans himself with his hand and bats his eyes. “Whatever will the  _babushkas_ think?”

Otabek laughs. “Do you know how much they paid me? I mean, I flew first class out here, you know.”

“I fly first class everywhere, you know.”

“You’re an Olympic gold medalist. Between that and a dozen endorsements and ice shows, I’m surprised you don’t have your own private jet by now.”

“Don’t think I haven’t  _tried_ ,” Yuri says, leaning forward, all eager and conspiratorial. “Yakov would have another heart attack if I showed up with a fucking jet or something. Lucky for him, Rada won’t let me touch my money other than what I get as an allowance. She gives me enough to pay the bills, for Potya’s food, and then have some left over for, you know, fun shit. But not private jets,” he adds darkly. "She says I don't have  _that_ much to throw around. Not as much as Victor, anyway."

“Ah.” Otabek does not know what it must be like for Yuri, to work his entire life to become extraordinary at the thing he does, and for the financial stability that comes with it. Once Yuri had started winning medals reliably, the endorsements had begun to come in, and finally, after years and years of struggling, skating had finally become profitable for Yuri. And he isn't done yet.

Otabek, on the other hand, comes from money — his mother is a surgeon, his father the CEO of a very successful IT company — and he’s never had to struggle financially. His lessons and coaching fees weren’t an issue the way they’d been for Yuri, who works so hard to keep himself and his grandfather going, to pay coaching fees and for costumes, to live alone the way he wants to.

It makes Otabek want to protect him. Yuri would kill him if he knew.

“Do you want a jet?” Otabek grins at him. “My mother loves you, she calls you Сүйікті.”

“What does that mean?”

“Favorite,” says Otabek, and Yuri smiles and preens. “I bet if you asked, she’d buy you a jet in a heartbeat.”

“Shit, call her! Right now!” Otabek’s phone is on the table next to his plate, and Yuri makes a grab for it. Otabek tries to get to it first, but their hands tangle together for a moment. The contact makes the hair on the back of Otabek’s neck stand up. Yuri yanks his hand back as though he’d been burnt.

“Fine,” he says, refusing to meet Otabek’s eyes. “She follows me on Instagram, anyway.”

“She wants you to visit again.”

“She wants to make me fat, is what she wants.” Yuri shakes his head. “Last time, I think I gained three kilos.” He scowls. “Why is your food so  _good?”_

“It’s all the horsemeat,” says Otabek, filching a bit of Yuri’s cod from his plate. “We should probably hurry up if we’re going to the grocery after.”

Once the bill is paid (by Yuri, he insists, and Otabek can never say no to him) they head out into the night. “Shops are this way,” says Yuri. He takes Otabek by the wrist and steers him down the street, dodging people and tugging Otabek along through the crowds. Otabek pretends it’s not shattering him to the core to have Yuri’s slender fingers pressed against his pulse.

Yuri pulls him through the entrance of an all-night grocery and lets go so he can grab a small basket from the stack by the door. Otabek sighs internally at the loss of contact. “So, what do you want, besides dates?”

“We really don’t have to get any,” says Otabek. “It’s not a big deal. But snacks would be good."

“Well, that really narrows it down,” says Yuri, rolling his eyes. “Come on, then.”

Otabek follows his lead. Yuri finds dried dates in the fruits section and insists on getting them despite Otabek's protests, as well as some apples and pears that he greedily loads into the basket. Otabek trails behind him, inspecting things on the shelves as they pass by. It’s not really any different from a market in Almaty, though it seems a bit bigger and brighter. His Russian Cyrillic is pretty rusty — he can speak it just fine, fluently even, but reading it is still a bit tricky so he’s having trouble deciphering some of the packages. He does, however, recognize a box of Cheerios, so he picks it up and adds it to Yuri’s basket.

Yuri gives him a questioning look. “I ate them every day when I was in Canada,” Otabek says by way of explanation. “I like them better than muesli.”

“Legit.” Yuri adds a bar of chocolate to the mix. “Don’t tell Victor, or the Баба."

“I won’t breathe a word.” Otabek smiles and pretends to zip his mouth shut.

Yuri stares at him for a moment, unidentified emotions waging war on his face, then turns to pluck a loaf of bread from the shelf. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I just had a nice dinner and I’m hanging out with you,” says Otabek. “I’m pretty happy right now.”

“You’re pretty weird, is what you are.” Yuri snorts. “I can’t believe I’m friends with you.”

“That was entirely your decision,” Otabek says. They join the queue up front, but this time when the girl reads out their total, Otabek has his card in the chip reader before Yuri can even extract his wallet.

“HEY!” Yuri glares at him. “You’re  _my_ guest!”

“And we came here for me.” Otabek retrieves his card and tucks his wallet away. “Let’s get back.” He looks at his phone. “Sunrise is at 4am, that doesn’t leave me much time. It's not even properly dark - does it even  _get_ dark here in the summer?”

“Oh. Shit.” Yuri’s eyes widen. “Yeah, the days are really long, here. You’re gonna  _die_.”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to die. I’m fasting, not starving myself. Though, twenty hours without food is… not so good.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll call my dad, he might know what I can do.”

“It’s like 3am in Almaty.”

“I think he’s in Dubai right now,” says Otabek. “And he’s usually up pretty late, anyway.” He pulls out his phone, and Yuri scoots closer so that he can see the screen. After a moment, Otabek’s father appears — pixelated, but recognizable. Otabek can tell that he’s smiling.

“Сәлем, Beka!” his father says, cheerful and pleased. “Hello to Russia! It’s late there, isn’t it?”

“Yuri took me out to eat for iftar. It was pretty good, he knew of a place that was open late.”

“Good, good. How is Yuri?”

“Ask him yourself,” he says, tilting the phone toward Yuri.

“Сәлем, Mister Altin,” says Yuri, in halting Kazakh, waving at the camera.

“Yuri! How are you?” His father responds in Russian, and Otabek can see Yuri's shoulders relax. “Taking good care of Beka?”

“Always.” Yuri grins. He likes Otabek’s parents a lot and it shows whenever he talks to them. “At least he’s housebroken.”

“Hey!”

Otabek’s father laughs. “Ask him how long exactly it took us to housebreak him,” he says, and Otabek groans into his hand. “Okay, okay. You called for a reason, yes?”

“Yes, әке. Saint Petersburg has 20 hours of daylight right now.”

“Oh?” Otabek’s father looks confused for a moment, but then he nods. “Ahh, yes.”

“Yeah.” Otabek makes a face. “Today was kind of rough.”

“I would imagine so,” says his father. "How are you feeling?”

“I survived,” says Otabek. "But I don't think I can do it for an entire month."

“Well, I think it’d be alright if you go by Сауд Арабиясы."

Yuri mouths  _what?_ at Otabek, who holds up a hand to wait. “Okay. Wasn’t sure so I thought I’d ask.”

“Of course. It’s not a big deal. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, әке.” Otabek looks over at Yuri, who has started to look a little bored. “We should go, it’s pretty late, but I’ll call you later this week, okay?”

“Take care, Beka. Yuri, it’s nice to see you again.”

Yuri goes a little pink. “You too, Mister Altin.”

“Қайырлы түн, boys.”

“Қайырлы түн,” they say in unison, and Otabek ends the call. He pockets his phone. “Which way back?” he asks Yuri.

“This way.” Yuri takes his wrist again and steers him in the direction of his flat. He doesn’t let go right away. Otabek could easily slide his hand into Yuri’s and intertwine their fingers, but he knows that it’s probably a bad idea. Instead, he allows himself to be led through the dusky streets until they come back to Yuri’s building. Only then, as Yuri calls the lift, does Yuri let him go.

“So, what did your dad say?” Yuri closes the door behind them as they take off their shoes. "I don't know enough Kazakh, I didn't understand him."

“He said to go by Saudi Arabian time. Hang on, I want to let Luba out.” Otabek goes to open the washroom door and waits for her to take her time and saunter out. She gives him a dirty look and then goes off to find Potya and bother her.

Otabek finds Yuri in the kitchen. He takes out his phone and Googles time zones. “Oh. Saudi Arabia is in a different time zone, but it’s the same time there as it is here.”

“Weird.”

“But the days are shorter, sunrise is at five but it sets at about seven.”

"That's a lot easier."

"I keep telling you that fasting is not that bad. You know how you are every season? You hardly eat anything. It's not that much different."

"So why do it at all?"

"It's tradition," says Otabek, reaching for the Cheerios and the milk. "It's faith. It means something. I'm doing it because I need a recharge. I need to start over. I need to figure out where I am with myself and with God." He casts about the kitchen, lost for a second. "Bowls?"

"There." Yuri points at a cupboard over the sink and then leans against the counter. "How come you've never done it before?"

"I told you, I have done it before. But when I started traveling around the world I stopped trying to keep up, it was too hard with the all the jchanging time zones. I don't even look for mosques anymore, and I should." Otabek can't quite keep the guilt out of his voice. "I really should find one here. Especially now."

"There's one at Gor'kovskaya Station." Yuri shrugs. "I'll show you, if you want."

Otabek blinks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, it means something to you, so." Yuri shrugs. "I've never been, either."

"The one my parents go to is huge. When you come back to Almaty, I'll take you to see it."

Yuri grins. "Deal." He offers up a fist bump that Otabek returns before pouring the Cheerios into a bowl and the milk over them.

“In Canada," he says, unprompted, "they put beavers on their money."

Yuri lights up with a look of scandalized awe. He loves weird things, is always sending Otabek bizarre animal facts and Google Earth screenshots of crop circles. “The hell?” he says, digging into his chocolate bar. “What the fuck is a beaver? That's stupid.”

“It's the national animal, or something. Or moose.”

"What the fuck is a—nope, don't want to know." Yuri shoves candy into his mouth. “Is Canada what made you weird?”

“No, it started way before that,” says Otabek. “Spoons?”

“There,” says Yuri, gesturing toward a drawer under the microwave. “Let’s go watch something.” He turns and heads for the living room.

“It’s one in the morning,” says Otabek, following after him. “You don’t have to stay up. I’m going to eat this and probably go to sleep for a while.”

“Not tired.” Yuri flings himself into the couch and picks up the remote. “Let’s watch a little of something, at least.” He turns on the TV and flips between channels, passing by a few old movies, a couple of cartoons, and the news. He lands on a repeat of a hospital programme. “Hey,” he says brightly, “This one is pretty cool.”

The show  _is_ rather funny, and they don’t really speak much except to laugh. Otabek finishes his cereal and feels himself starting to shut down; he’s tired from travel and his belly is full, which is making him very sleepy. Yuri, next to him on the couch, has abandoned his chocolate and is instead leaning against Otabek, eyes falling closed and then jerking open again as he slumps forward and wakes himself. Otabek doesn't really want to move, but it’s very late and Yuri has practice in the morning.

“Yura.” Otabek nudges him with his shoulder. “Yura, go to bed.”

“Hnnmgn.” Yuri swats at him and burrows closer. “M’sleepin.”

“You have a bed.” Otabek gently pushes him upright. “Go get in it.”

“FuckyouI’mfine.” Yuri rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”

“It's three in the morning. It's dawn."

“Shit.” Yuri gets to his feet, staggering a bit. “Okay. You need a blanket and a pillow.” He shuffles off down the hall, then returns with a squishy duvet and a lumpy pillow that he drops on the couch. “There’s more stuff if you need it.” He gestures around the living room. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Otabek looks at him and smiles. “Hey, Yura."

Yuri grins sleepily. “Hey, Beka.” He yawns using his whole face. “Okay, I’m fucking done. Going to bed.” He starts down the hall to his bedroom, then stops and looks back. “Спокойной ночи,” he says, hushed and feathery, like a prayer.

“Спокойной ночи,” says Otabek. He loves seeing Yuri softened by sleep. “See you later.”

Once Yuri’s gone and his door’s shut, Otabek makes up the couch and gets ready for bed. After his teeth are cleaned and he’s stripped down to his shorts, he crawls under the blanket and sighs in relief. He’s completely exhausted, not just from the trip but from being back in Yuri’s orbit; it’s always just this side of overwhelming.

He has just enough energy to post a quick photo to Instagram before plugging in his phone and putting it on the coffee table.

 **@otabek-altin**   _Сәлеметсіз бе, Ресей_

[Image: Team Russia jacket flung over an armchair.]

Otabek is asleep before his head hits the pillow.


	4. Routine

Over the next few days, they fall into an easy routine. Yuri goes to practice every morning, and every other morning Otabek picks up his skates and joins him for a few laps around the rink (and a couple of forbidden triple Salchows that make Yuri smirk at him as he glides by in a perfect Ina Bauer).

Mostly, Otabek watches Yuri skate. It's a singular thing to see Yuri soar over the ice, frantic but controlled, every movement of his body calculated without looking wooden or artificial. He is all grace and elegance on the ice, but there is fury behind it, as though Yuri is fighting against the choreography and limitations of a short program and its requirements. He is the beating of wings against the walls of a cage, but the door is shut. His skating only intensifies; Yuri will never stop seeking freedom.

Otabek knows that if he'd trained a bit more, and if he hadn't spent a week and a half hunched miserably over a toilet, he absolutely could have continued training throughout Ramadan. His coach, on the other hand, gave him her personal recommendation that he just take the time to recover from being ill and to “take a fucking break for once.” She then left the choice up to him.

In the end, he knows he’s made the right decision. He already feels it, the sense of peace and security — even in a foreign land, he feels safe (though that probably has a lot to do with Yuri) — that has been somewhat absent from his life. Something is coming together around him, inside him, spurred by faith and tradition, and he looks forward to finding out what it is.

“I know what you’ve been working on,” says Yuri in a sing-song voice, sidling up to him one Tuesday afternoon at the rink, several days into Otabek's stay.

Otabek frowns at him over his water bottle. “What?”

“Don’t be a smartass." Yuri puffs hair away from his eyes. "I  _know_  what you’ve been  _working on_.”

Otabek is suspicious. “ _How_ do you know?”

“I have spies everywhere,” says Yuri, cackling gleefully. “Mira follows me on Insta and tells me things.”

“That traitor.” Otabek makes a face. “She told me not to tell anyone.”

Yuri scoffs. “I’m adorable, she’ll tell me anything I want if I send her enough cat photos.” He skates a circle around Otabek. “So, show me!” he demands. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Mira would kill me if I tried it without her around.”

“Listen, you’re not made of little sticks.” Yuri sounds frustrated. “You’re not going to fall apart if you do  _one jump_. And anyway, you were just out there fucking prancing around like a goddamn unicorn, so don’t give me your shit.”

Otabek stares him down. After about 10 seconds, Yuri rolls his eyes and turns away. “Fine, don’t show me.”

“Oh, for— All right.” Otabek hands him his water bottle. “If I break my neck, I'm going to haunt you.”

“I will fucking Ghostbuster your ass,” says Yuri, beaming in triumph. “Now get going.”

The thing is, Otabek has never landed this clean in practice. He gets too inside his own head, worries about rotations and height and the physics of his own body. He knows better, but knowing better is easy — changing tactics is very hard. Mira really would kill him for attempting it now, even though he left the harness behind several weeks ago, but he’s anxious for someone other than she — who thinks it’s kind of silly to waste training time on something he probably won’t have down in time for competition this season — to see him attempt it. And it would be very nice if that person were Yuri.

He warms up with a couple of laps around the rink, some spins, and a quick double axel. Then he starts building speed, tuning out the rush of his skates against the ice, the murmur of onlookers. He can feel himself struggling not to analyze everything he’s doing. He imagines Yuri shouting at him,  _you’re not a rocket scientist yet, asshole, trust your feet and just let it_ happen _, for fuck’s sake._

With that last thought, Otabek launches himself into the air and — for once — does not count the rotations. He just lets it happen.

When returns to the ice, the landing isn’t as jarring as it normally is. He does wobble just a little as he skates out of the jump, and as he catches his breath he can see the surprised faces staring at him in shock, and he suddenly realizes: He’d  _landed it_.

“FUCK EVERYTHING,” Yuri shrieks from the other side of the rink. He comes streaking across the ice, barreling into Otabek and sending them crashing into the boards. “YOU FUCKER, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN SITTING ON THAT?”

“A few months. About three weeks without the harness,” says Otabek, acutely aware that the other skaters are headed their way, looks of curious awe on their faces. “That’s the first— I’ve never landed it clean before." Otabek wonders if he looks as bewildered as he feels. "I usually pop it or fall on my face."

“Are you shitting me, that was the first time?!” Yuri starts looking around frantically. “Holy fuck, I hope someone got that on video. DID ANYONE GET THAT ON VIDEO?”

“ _Yura,_ no.” Otabek looks around and realizes their audience is drawing even closer. “Ah,” he says, wincing. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Yuri looks at him, incredulous. “Are you nuts? You’ll  _dominate_ the season with that!”

Otabek grimaces. “No, I mean—“ He tugs at Yuri’s arm but Yuri just looks at him in confusion. “Let’s  _go_.”

“What? Oh. Crap.” Yuri pushes him toward the exit. "Go, go—"

They do not make it.

“Otabek!” Victor sails over and claps a hand on his shoulder. “That was remarkable! Outstanding! Will you be competing with it?” There’s a calculating gleam in his eye. “Who  _is_ your coach right now? Are you very happy together?”

“Victor, leave him alone!” Katsuki comes up beside him, punches him lightly in the arm. “People aren’t Pokémon. You can’t coach them all.”

Yuri makes a face at him. “That was horrible,” he says. "You're not funny at all."

Katsuki merely smiles. “I’m the funniest person you know.”

“Pardon me, but—“ Victor waves his arms around “—are we just going to ignore that quad axel? Am I the only one here who _appreciates_ the art of what we do?”

“Yes.” Yuri pulls at Otabek’s sleeve. “We should go. Didn’t you want to Skype your mother?”

Otabek knows an escape plan when he hears one. He reaches down and squeezes Yuri’s hand, out of sight of the others, in gratitude.

“Right,” says Yuri, squeezing back. “So, we’re gonna go and do stuff that doesn’t involve any of you.”

Victor does let them leave, but not without a good amount of pouting and a demand that Yuri bring Otabek to dinner soon. Otabek is surprised that he actually wants to go; he’s not about to leave his coach anytime soon, but he likes Victor, in a weird way. He'd like to know him a bit better, considering the influence he has on Yuri's life. Even after four years, any insight into Yuri — no matter the source — is worth seeking.

“There’s no fucking way we’re going over there while you’re here,” grumbles Yuri as they sit in the locker room and take off their skates. “Fuck that.”

“I’d like to go, actually.” Otabek smirks at the look of betrayal on Yuri’s face. “It would be an  _experience_.”

“ _Tokyo_ is an experience,” says Yuri. “Victor is a  _trauma_.”

“He has a weird way of showing affection, for sure.” Otabek tucks his skates into his bag. “If you don’t want to go, we won’t. I’m just casting my vote.”

“ _Ugh_.” Yuri grabs his stuff. “Fine. But only if Katsudon is cooking. Victor burns water.”

“Is Katsuki really such a good cook?” It’s rare praise coming from Yuri. “I mean, the stuff you learned in Japan’s pretty good when you’ve made it for me. Did he teach you?”

Yuri nods. “Nah. He’s good but not that good. I learned it from his мама the last time I went to Hasetsu. She does the cooking at the hot springs. What I’ve made you isn’t even half as good as her stuff.”

He pauses, frowning. “His parents are really cool,” he says softly, and Otabek can hear the soft ache in his words. It had taken a year and a half for Yuri to tell Otabek about his parents’ deaths in a car crash when he was five, and that was only after half a bottle of vodka and a lot of swearing. He doesn’t really remember them too well, he says, but he still doesn’t like talking about them.

As a result, Yuri doesn’t know how to act around other people’s parents, as evidenced by his sheer terror upon visiting Almaty last year, when Otabek’s mother descended upon him in a cyclone of food and warmth. It'd taken a week for Yuri to become comfortable with the affection, and by the end of the visit he'd basked in it like a cat in sunlight.

“They sound cool,” says Otabek after a moment, bumping his shoulder against Yuri’s. “See? Katsuki’s not so bad.”

Yuri grunts. “Victor’s still an asshole, though.”

Otabek nods. “Of course. I never disputed that.”

That makes Yuri laugh. “Okay, we’re going home so I can change clothes and then fall over dead.”

“What about me?” Otabek follows him to the exit. “What am I going to do while you’re dead?”

Yuri smirks at him over his shoulder, hair in his eyes. They're the same shades of green and blue as the river. “You can do whatever the fuck you want,” he says, laughing. “Just do one thing: make sure my funeral is fucking  _lit_.”

Otabek smiles and falls into step with Yuri. Tonight, they might go out to see some of the White Nights celebrations; Yuri has talked about the carnivals at Catherine Palace and Peterhof quite a bit since Otabek arrived. Or maybe they’ll sit in front of the television and watch very colorful American cartoons about anthropomorphic rocks.

Maybe they’ll huddle up with a laptop and a shared set of headphones, and Otabek will experiment with some of the new music he’s picked up recently, letting Yuri listen in and offer criticisms or praise.

And maybe they’ll sit in amicable silence, Otabek doing schoolwork on his laptop, Yuri scrolling through Instagram, replying to fan comments just to watch them lose their minds.

At the end of the day they’ll go to bed, punctuated by a quick hug (that’s new, Yuri doesn't usually hug people, but Otabek isn't going to question it; Yuri is capricious like that) and a soft goodnight. Yuri will shut himself and Potya in his room, and Otabek will retire to the couch, with Luba on his chest.

That is their routine, and Otabek is happy to maintain it.

For now though, they are walking together across a bridge in Saint Petersburg, and beside him Yuri’s laughter is as light and sharp as the sunlight flickering off the surface of the river. It’s a good day.

They go home.


	5. The Dinner

"It's not too late to run for it. If we hire a car we can be in Helsinki in four hours."

"Do we really need to flee the country to avoid dinner with Victor and Katsuki?"

They're standing on the street in front of a beautiful old apartment building. Otabek holds a container of baursak he and Yuri made (along with an enormous mess) themselves. Yuri's tugging on his arm. "Come on, let's just bail and go do something actually fun instead. Like having our teeth pulled."

Otabek puts a hand on the back of Yuri's neck and steers him toward the door. "Yura," he says. "Relax. You do this all the time."

"Yes, but it's  _embarrassing_ now that you're here." Yuri winces. "They're going to be stupid and fuss over you and I don't understand why you're  _okay_ with this!"

"I've heard good things about Katsuki's cooking."

Yuri scowls. "You're an asshole."

"Only on Sundays." Otabek pulls the door open. "Also, they were nice enough to eat earlier than usual for them. They didn't have to accommodate me."

"Well. Yeah." Yuri snorts. "They're not  _dicks_ , I guess."

"Mm. After you."

Yuri stomps into the lobby and smashes the button for the lift. "I am going to regret every second of this," he says, arms folded across his chest. "You think Victor is bad when we're at the rink? This is going to be ten times worse."

The lift arrives and once they're inside Yuri hits the button for the top floor. Yuri'd told him that Victor had lived within walking distance of the rink, but when Katsuki moved to Russia they quickly figured out that they needed more room for two people and a dog, and that Katsuki had wanted something a little more 'home-like.' "Which isn't that weird," Yuri had said, in a rare moment of empathy. "If you saw his family's house, you'd get why a penthouse flat and Victor's stupid Norweigan or Icelandic or what-the-fuck-ever designer furniture wasn't right."

The lift lets them out into a small hallway with only two doors. Yuri bangs his fist on the blue one. "Oi!" He bangs some more. "Let us in!"

"There's a bell, you know," Otabek says, grabbing Yuri's wrist so he can't keep beating the door down. "Or, you know. Knock like a normal, not-crazy person."

Before Yuri can form a response the door swings open, revealing Victor in a flowery apron. "Hello!" he says, beaming. Victor really does not seem to have an off switch. "Come in! Come in!" He sweeps his arm grandly and steps aside, waving them into the apartment. "Yurachka, thank you so much for bringing your young man!"

"Fuck you." Yuri kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the sofa, plunking himself down as though he lives here. "Where's Katsudon?"

"Kitchen, of course. You'll like what he's making. It makes you miss the onsen."

Yuri has nothing to say to that, but Otabek knows that Yuri  _does_ miss the onsen, he just doesn't want anybody to know about it. Yuri feigns interest in his phone, his go-to method of ignoring Victor, so Otabek steps up and hands off the baursak.

"What's this?" Victor takes the container and holds it up for inspection. "Did you make this?"

"Dessert," says Otabek. "My mother's recipe, although mine is not as good."

"Nonsense, I'm sure it's lovely." He heads for what Otabek suspects is the kitchen. "Come say hello to Yuuri!"

With Yuri still sulking on the sofa, buried in his phone, Otabek follows Victor across the apartment. Vogue Russia did a photo spread on Victor a few years ago that showed his old apartment, and Otabek has to say this is much more inviting, as though people actually live here. The sofa looks comfortable, the chairs worn as though they are used often, and there's artwork and photos everywhere. There are also a  _lot_ of dog toys everywhere. Makkachin scampers into the room, still spry for as old as she is. She bounces up to Otabek and gives his hand a lick. Otabek kneels to rub her face and scratch her ears.

"You're pretty famous, you know?" Otabek lets her lick his nose. "I am honored."

He's so distracted by Makkachin that Otabek is not expecting the small, furry cannonball that careens from the hallway and runs straight into his leg.

"No! Down!" Victor balances the baursak in one hand and grabs the puppy's collar with the other. "She's still learning her manners."

"What's her name?" Otabek gives her the same treatment he gave Makkachin, rubbing her ears and, once Victor lets go, letting her lick his chin.

"Zavarka." He smiles. "We got her to give poor old Makkachin a companion, because we're away so often." Victor winks. "Yurio is completely smitten with her," he stage-whispers.

"I don't blame him," says Otabek, hoping Yuri can't hear him. "She's cute."

Victor gently shoos Zavarka away and leads Otabek the rest of the way into the kitchen. Katsuki's bent over a pot on the stove, stirring what looks like soup while looking at his phone. He looks up as they come in. "Hi!" he says. "Good to see you, Otabek. Is Yurio in the living room?"

"I'm sure he and the dogs have found each other by now," says Victor, sidling up to Katsuki and slipping an arm around his waist. Otabek (unlike Yuri) is not bothered by displays of affection, but he still averts his eyes to the rest of the kitchen as they kiss each other hello. It feels more intimate here than it does when they're messing around at the rink; this is their home together, and despite being invited into it Otabek still feels a bit like an intruder. 

"Ooh!" Katsuki spots the container in Victor's hand. "Did you bring something? That's great! What is it?"

"Kazakh pastries!" Victor pries open the lid and sniffs. "I've never had  _anything_ from Kazakhstan before. You must cook for us someday, Otabek."

"Oh, no one wants that," says Otabek quickly. "This and beşbarmaq are the only things I know how to cook, and even then, it's not great."

"Nonsense," says Victor, waving Otabek's words away. "I bet it's delicious."

"It's horse meat and noodles." Otabek raises an eyebrow. "Not everyone's cup of tea."

Victor grins and slings an arm around Otabek's shoulders. "Let me tell you about the time Yuuri made me try nattō."

Katsuki makes a noise of protest. "Not before we eat, Victor. No one wants to hear that story before eating. Or ever." He glances at him. "Why are you wearing an apron? You're not cooking anything— where did you even  _get_ that apron? I told you to stay off Amazon."

Victor winks at Otabek. "Can we help with anything, my love?"

Katsuki shakes his head. "This is almost done, so. Go away. I want this to be good - Otabek, you're breaking your fast, right?"

Otabek nods. "My family usually eats a big meal once the sun sets."

"Okay, good." Katsuki peers at the rice cooker, checking the time left. "I don't know a lot about Ramadan, so I hope you'll forgive me if I do or say something stupid."

"You're fine," says Otabek. "I appreciate the consideration. Not a lot of people would even try."

"Maybe they don't in _other_ countries," says Katsuki, "But this is _my_ house, so don't worry about it. Now, both of you, go _away_." He shoves Victor away from the stove. "Stop bothering me. Go bother Yurio instead."

Victor laughs and ushers Otabek out of the kitchen. "My Yuuri is always a bit tetchy when he's cooking. He tries so hard to make it as good as his mother's, but to him it always falls short.  _I_ think it's all delicious, but Yuuri is a perfectionist."

"I know," says Otabek. "I've seen him skate."

Victor's face lights up like White Nights fireworks. "Oh, shall we watch some of his performances? I have them all bookmarked!" He drags Otabek into the living room. "I can put them up on the TV!"

"Stop  _torturing_ him, geezer." Yuri looks up from his phone. Zavarka is in his lap, squirming around happily as he absently scratches her belly. Makkachin is at his feet, already asleep and drooling on his shoes. "He doesn't need to see Katsudon fall on his ass over and over."

"I don't remember him falling in PyeongChang," says Victor. His light tone belies the sly look on his face. "I remember that someone _else_ fell during his short program, however."

"I  _still_ brought home gold, you shitweasel—" Yuri's instantly up off the couch and headed for Victor to likely get right up in his face, so Otabek puts out a hand and catches him by the shoulder.

"No," he says quietly. Yuri glares at him for a moment, then returns, grumbling, to the couch and Zavarka, who looks confused as to why her belly-rubs stopped. Makkachin doesn't look thrilled to have been woken up. Yuri mumbles an apology to them and Zavarka leaps back into his lap and snuggles in. The color in Yuri's face slowly returns to normal.

"Hm." Otabek looks up at Victor, who is looking back with an expression Otabek can't read. Victor touches a finger to his own lips. "Okay, why don't you help me make up the table, Otabek?" he says.

Otabek nods, a little bewildered as Victor leads him into a small, surprisingly simple dining room. The table is big enough for six people but there are only four chairs, and the dishes Victor's retrieving from a cupboard are mismatched and obviously very well-loved. Otabek wonders what came from Victor's family and what from Katsuki's. The bowls are distinctly Japanese, but the pattern on the teacups is definitely Russian. It's a curious mix, but as the table comes together it somehow works.

"I feel like I don't get to speak with you very often," says Victor, handing Otabek a stack of bowls. "I see you at competitions but we're always too busy to talk."

"You see me at the rink a lot," says Otabek. He has  _no_ idea how to navigate a conversation with Victor; Yuri's always been the buffer between them. This is Otabek's first time flying solo. It's a little harrowing because Otabek knows that Victor often speaks in riddles that are indecipherable, and then he will turn around and show off his staggering intelligence as he talks circles around you, leaving you dizzy and a little nauseated and wondering what just happened. He does that most often to the press, answering questions without really answering them and offering clever soundbites that mean absolutely nothing.

They were both wrong. Victor, Otabek realizes very quickly, is a challenge.

"I suppose you don't have much time there, either," he adds, carefully.

"I can always make time." Victor sets out a few trivets. "But I get the feeling you don't really talk much, do you?"

Otabek pauses in arranging spoons. "I do, actually," he says, a little sharply. "I just don't often find people worth talking to."

"Ooh, sassy!" Victor's eyes widen and he smiles broadly, apparently pleased as punch at the thinly-veiled insult. Otabek's head spins a little, and it's beginning to dawn on him that he _is_ being vetted. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, my dear. You're a bit like my Yuuri, really. He picks and chooses his people very carefully. But once he does, he opens up like a sunflower."

Otabek, through Yuri, is familiar with the way Victor waxes poetic about nearly everything, but despite that it's still a nice thing to say about your partner. He wonders what it would be like to be able to say things like that about Yuri, to describe Yuri's personality as something to cherish rather than something to avoid. Telling the world what they've missed out on.

He tries not to think about Yuri saying kind things about him. Not for any self-depricating reason, but because despite Yuri's ability to talk up a storm, he keeps his personal details pretty sealed up. Otabek knows that no one else, not even Yuri's grandfather, has ever been to his flat. He only has twelve people in his contacts. Victor and Katsuki are the only people Yuri talks about consistently. Yuri might be a born performer, and he might live his entire life on Instagram, but the important things he keeps for himself.

Otabek is pretty sure by now that he is one of those important things, and that's worth more than anything Yuri could say about him to someone else.

"It's fine," says Otabek, eventually. "I just don't have a lot to say most of the time. It's nothing personal, it's just… me." He shrugs. "Yuri doesn't seem to mind, so it's not really an issue."

Victor winks. "It's alright, he talks enough for the both of you," he says, as they finish up the table. "Let's go bring the food in!"

It takes all four of them to bring everything into the dining room; Katsuki went all out and prepared an actual feast, obviously with Otabek in mind. He's impressed, but despite several trips to Japan throughout his skating career Otabek doesn't know the proper name for any of what's been brought to the table. He recognizes grilled fish and pickled vegetables, and he thinks the soup is miso, but he's curious about the little round dumplings with a mysterious filling, a dish that might be a kind of curry, and an assortment of things that are deep-fried. It's a little overwhelming.

Yuri on the other hand seems to recognize everything, judging by how he's practically vibrating in his seat, hands twitching as he tries not to start grabbing food before everyone is seated. It seems odd, until Otabek thinks about how Yuri's manners came entirely from his grandfather, which is the only reason they stuck.

As he sits down, Otabek's phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't want to be rude, but when he glances at Katsuki he sees that he has his own phone out, so Otabek takes that as blanket permission and swipes open his screen. It's a text from Yuri—Yuri, who is sitting next to him at the table. Otabek frowns in confusion.

**Yura:** _katsudon wanted me to tell you that the curry has beef in it but he got it from a special butcher. he said you'd know what that means wtf does it mean_

Otabek glances up from his phone. Yuri's giving him a look as though he expects an answer right  _now_ , but Otabek ignores him in favor of Katsuki. From across the table, Katsuki looks back with a small smile. Otabek is a little thrown by the kindness, but he nods his thanks, and Katsuki grins.

Then Otabek looks down at his plate and goes still.

"What?" Yuri nudges him, reaching for fish and the little dumplings. "What's the matter?"

Otabek picks up the chopsticks next to his plate. "I—"  _Never learned. Can't figure it out. All of the above._ "It's been a while…"

"Oh, don't worry about it." Katsuki's already getting up. "I can teach you if you want, but let me get a fork, just in case."

" _I'll_ teach you," says Yuri, reaching over and grabbing the chopsticks from Otabek. "Okay, hold your hand like this." He leans in close and arranges Otabek's fingers around the chopsticks. Otabek feels like he might short-circuit. He is painfully aware of Victor and Katsuki watching them, Victor smiling weirdly, all joy and teeth. It's unsettling.

Otabek focuses on the warmth of Yuri's hands.

Once Yuri's got Otabek more or less holding the chopsticks, he lets go and looks at Otabek expectantly. "You don't move the bottom one, only the top one. Everybody gets that wrong." He picks up his own set and clacks them at him. "Okay, try and get a pickle from that bowl."

It takes him three tries and two different pickles, but at last Otabek succeeds in transferring an item of food from a bowl to his mouth. He ducks his head when they all cheer — Victor and Katsuki in triumph, Yuri in relief (though he looks pleased to have taught Otabek something he considers important). It's almost as though none of them can eat until Otabek mastered the chopsticks.

(Though in the end, after fifteen minutes and numerous attempts to take a single bite of fish, Otabek abandons them for the fork.)

\---

Dessert is the baursak, served with sugar and honey, along with tea. Zavarka is thrilled to bounce around from person to person, demanding pets and kisses. Makkachin is more interest in the baursak; Otabek catches VIctor sneaking her treats when Yuuri isn't looking. Otabek says nothing — he doesn't think he'd be able to resist that face, either.

Zavarka on the other hand is particularly fond of Yuri, and after a few minutes of chaos she settles down next to him, her chin on his knee. He scratches her behind the ears without looking up from his phone.

"So! Have we shown you good Russian hospitality, Otabek?" asks Victor.

"Hey!" Katsuki, on the other end of the sofa, kicks him in the shin with a socked foot. "Hello? Not-Russian over here! Who cooked all that food, huh?"

Victor immediately looks contrite. He opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the pillow that hits him in the head. "What!"

"Shove your  _Russian hospitality_!" Yuri reaches for another pillow. "He gets all the  _Russian hospitality_ he needs, from  _me_!"

Victor's eyes go wide. He grins at Katsuki, who throws another pillow at him. Katsuki, who at the same time gives Otabek a little wink. "Yurio," he says, nudging Yuri with his foot. "You have practice in the morning, so you should both probably get home."

"What? Oh, okay." Yuri looks a little startled, like he hadn't expected things to end so soon. Otabek surreptitiously checks his phone — it's not quite 10pm. Katsuki is giving Yuri an out, and Yuri seems confused by it. Otabek thinks it must be rare for Yuri to leave early. "Yeah, I guess we should go."

"Oh! But," Victor whines. "I have all of Yurio's juniors performances bookmarked on YouTube. We should watch them!"

"I am going to dump your body in the river."

"Thank you," says Otabek, giving Zavarka and Makkachin another quick pet before getting up. "It was nice."

"Come over again before you leave," says Katsuki. "You're all Victor talks about since you did that quad axel the other day, and you're all Yurio talks about — well, period. It'd be nice to actually know you beyond just 'he's amazing'."

"AND WE ARE GOING." Yuri grabs Otabek by the arm and all but drags him to the door. "Just— it was good, Katsudon. Thanks." He speaks through his teeth, voice strained as though it physically pains him to say it.

"You're welcome!" Victor ruffles Yuri's hair. Otabek's surprised Victor gets all of his hand back. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning!"

"Yeah, okay." He pushes Otabek through the door and almost slams it shut behind them, but at the last minute lets it  _snick_ shut quietly. Then he leans against it and exhales. "What an ordeal."

"It went fine," says Otabek, nudging him toward the lift. Once they're inside and the doors close, he turns to Yuri. "I don't know why you're so angry at them all the time," he says, voice low and even. "They're fine. Katsuki didn't have to find a halal butcher in Saint Petersburg, but he did. He gave me a fork without me even asking. And he let  _you_ go early." He pokes Yuri in the chest. "So maybe lay off of him for a while?"

It's the closest he's ever come to being cross with Yuri. He's surprised at himself for even speaking up, but there's a distinct line between having a surly attitude and just being cruel, and after tonight he realizes that Yuri dances on that line a little too often for Otabek's comfort.

"It's just… He knew enough about you to do that for you, but I didn't. I'm your best friend, and I didn't— I know you're Muslim, but I don't know what that  _means,_ and I  _should_ know. But Katsudon did and he did stuff for you without having to ask."

"You're  _trying to learn_ , Yura. That's also good."

Yuri won't be distracted. "And I didn't know you were really smart," he says. "Or that you want to be a rocket scientist."

"Astronomer."

"What _ever_ , fuck off, Einstein." Yuri punches him lightly in the chest. "I just, why don't I know this stuff? I know so much about you, but I don't know the really important stuff. What's wrong with me that I don't know?" He's just shy of hysterical. Otabek grabs his hands and holds them tight.

"You didn't do anything." Otabek shakes his head. "I'm sorry that I made you feel like you're doing something wrong. I'm hard to get to know."

"But it's been  _four years_."

"It just never came up before." Otabek feels a little sheepish. It really hadn't. He sincerely did not know how to broach the subject of religion or future plans with Yuri. For one thing, Yuri isn't at all religious. Superstitious to the core, but otherwise, from what Otabek can tell, Yuri has no time for God. He'd practically said as much the day they'd gone to see the Church On Spilled Blood.  _I haven't been to a church in forever._ That seemed, to Otabek, like a pretty good hint.

Yuri has also never talked about school, except to complain about his tutor. Otabek has no idea what kind of student Yuri is. He knows Yuri likes reading, when he can get a chance to actually do it, but he doesn't know what Yuri liked learning best. If anything at all. He doesn't know, and Yuri's never once volunteered. So Otabek didn't, either.

And neither one of them thought to just  _ask_.

"It's not personal, Yura," he says, a little weak.

"Sure as hell  _feels_ personal."

"I'm sorry that it makes you feel that way." Otabek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "But what does any of this have to do with Katsuki?" he asks. "Why are you so cruel to him?"

Yuri looks stricken, by the accusation and the obvious change of subject. "I just— He made Victor  _quit skating_ ," he sputters. "He ruined Victor's career before anyone could knock him out of the top!"

"How?" Otabek eyes him. "You wanted Victor to choreograph a program for you. Victor did. And then he came  _back_ to skating, so you got to compete against him. So what has Katsuki done that has you so angry at him?"

"I don't  _know._ " The doors open and Yuri spills out into the lobby but doesn't go for the doors. He jams his hands in his hoodie pockets and stands there, resolute and ready to fight. "He's so fucking  _happy_ all the time."

"Not all the time," says Otabek. "You told me that the first time you met him, he was crying in a public toilet."

"He's better about that now, because of Victor, I guess." Yuri stares at the floor. "They're happy. Victor is a pain in the ass, and Katsudon lives thousands of miles from home, but they're happy. And it's  _irritating_."

" _Why._ "

"Why are you pushing this?" Yuri glares up at him. "What's your  _problem_?"

"I want to understand why someone who I  _know_ can be very kind and fun to be around can treat people so badly," says Otabek. "Especially people who obviously care about him." He puts a hand on Yuri's shoulder. "Can't you just tell me?"

"It just is!" Yuri jerks away and flounces toward the exit. "No one can be that happy, Beka! It's just— It's not  _possible_."

You don't think it's possible to be happy?" asks Otabek. That Yuri might not understand  _happiness_ is terribly, horribly sad, and Otabek feels all the fight go out of him at the thought.

"Well, I mean. It's  _possible_. I'm happy you're here, you know?" He pauses at the door without pushing it open. "I'm happy when I land a jump, and when I win. My cat makes me happy. Just…" He shrugs. "Nothing's permanent. Nothing's forever."

 _Oh, Yura_.

"Well... I suppose that  _is_ true," says Otabek. He reaches over Yuri's head and pushes the door open for him. "Nothing is forever. But how long is forever? Forever's not really a logical timeframe to work from."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We do what we can while we're able to do it." It's still not dark out, instead it's a faint twilight, the sun just now dipping behind the buildings. "We take happiness where we can find it and we keep it for however long it lasts. When it's done, we do our best to let it go, and then we look for new happy things."

"That sounds exhausting," says Yuri, falling into step beside him. "Why can't we just be happy and  _stay that way_?"

"That's not being human," says Otabek.

"That's being  _Victor_."

"Do you think he was happy before he met Katsuki?" Otabek did not know Victor very well back then, except for sharing a podium with him a couple of times. So his question is sincere curiosity. "Did he act happy?"

Yuri's quiet for a long moment. "...I don't know," he says. "He seemed like it? He's rich, he's good-looking—don't you ever fucking tell him I said that—and he always went to all the afterparties. He had a different person with him at every one, but I never saw the same person twice, and..."

Yuri sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. "Fuck you, Beka, you're making me feel  _sorry_ for ."

"I'm just showing you the different ways to be happy. Victor's found his, maybe the first happiness he's had in a long time."

"Well, good for him. Does he have to rub our faces in it?"

"I don't think it's intentional." There's a tram waiting for them at the stop, and they make it through the doors just before they close. Yuri throws himself into one of the seats, and Otabek stands over him, hanging on to one of the straps.

"I don't think Victor knows how to do anything by halves," says Otabek, after a couple of stops. "He's happy and he wants everyone around him to be happy, so he thinks he can do that by talking about Katsuki all the time, because that's what makes  _him_ happy. He wants to lead by example."

"Tch," Yuri slumps in his seat. "Well, whatever. I wish they wouldn't make out at the rink, at least."

Otabek grins. "Well, they do  _that_ because it's fun."

"Ugh. Not you, too." Yuri scrubs a hand over his face. "My idea of entertainment isn't watching other people kissing."

Otabek snorts. "Then I do not want to know what kind of porn you watch."

In a perfect world, the tram would pull up to their stop and the doors would open, and Otabek could make a dramatic exit, but the world is what it is, and so Otabek makes do with the gobsmacked look on Yuri's face. It lasts until their stop, where Yuri sputters back to life.

"I'm not going to suddenly be nice to Victor or anything," he says as they exit the tram. "Katsudon, maybe. But Victor's still an idiot and I am not going to kiss his ass."

"No one's asking you to," says Otabek. "Just maybe not shout at him quite as much. And let him and Katsuki be. They're really not that bad."

"Sure, whatever," says Yuri, skirting ahead of him to get to the door first. "No promises."

He says it sharply, but to Otabek it sounds like one anyway.


	6. Fever

Halfway through Otabek’s visit, Yuri comes down with a fever. Otabek is awakened at 3am by the sounds of someone stumbling around the flat, and when he turns on a light to investigate, he finds a very pale Yuri, his duvet wrapped around himself haphazardly. He’s shivering, and when he looks up at Otabek his eyes are an unsettling shade of green. “Beka?”

“Let's get you back to bed.” Otabek puts a hand on Yuri’s bare shoulder, and he almost yanks his hand back, startled by the heat of Yuri’s skin. He’s burning up. “Come on, Yura. Let’s go.”

He steers him down the hallway and into Yuri's inner sanctum, maneuvering him across the room and pushing him gently into bed. “Do you need another blanket?”

“No.” Yuri weakly tries to arrange the one he has around his legs until Otabek takes pity on him and does it for him. “Beka.”

“Right here.” Otabek fixes Yuri’s pillows. “Do you want some water? Tea?” He rests the back of his hand against Yuri’s forehead. “Do you have a thermometer?”

“I don't know.” Yuri sighs and curls up into a little ball. Only a tuft of his hair is visible from under the duvet. “Am I ill?”

“I’d say so,” Otabek says softly. “I’m going to make you something cool to drink. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” Yuri whines. “Just stay here.”

“I’ll come right back, I promise.” Otabek spots Potya and Luba coming to investigate the fuss. “Here,” he says, picking up each cat and depositing them on the bed. “They will protect you.”

Otabek finds a thermometer and some paracetamol in the washroom but the water coming out of the tap won't cool off. He checks the fridge - grocery-store-kvass on the top shelf. He brings a glass of it back to Yuri. “Hey.” He pokes the lump in the bed. “Sit up for a moment, let’s take your temperature.”

There’s no response, so Otabek eases the blanket back. Yuri looks awful, his skin sallow with sickness. He’s barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Come on.” He turns on the thermometer. “Under the tongue, just like that.” It only takes a few moments before it beeps, and Otabek looks at it and whistles. “39˚ — so, if you go up any higher, I’m taking you to Emergency.”

Yuri doesn’t object, which is the thing that worries Otabek the most. He just sags against Otabek and pushes his hot face into Otabek’s neck. “Beka,” he mumbles. “Beka.”

“You’re all right,” says Otabek. “You’re just ill, you’ll be fine in a couple of days.” He reaches for the bottle of tablets and shakes two into his palm. “Okay, if you take these, you can sleep. Okay?”

Yuri manages to swallow both the tablets with the kvass. “Good,” says Otabek. “Now, let’s get you wrapped up.”

He arranges Yuri under the blanket, builds a pillow fort around him so he doesn’t roll out of bed when the fever eventually breaks. He crosses the room to open the window a bit, let in some fresh (as fresh as it gets, in the city) air. Potya and Luba are still on the bed, curled up close to Yuri without touching him. They seem to know what he needs.

Coming to Yuri's bedside again, Otabek pushes damp hair away from Yuri's forehead. "Yura, sleep," he says. "I’ll come check on you in a bit, yeah?”

“No.” Yuri’s voice is soft but insistent. “Stay, Beka. Please.”

Otabek sighs. “You need to sleep, Yura.”

“I’ll sleep if you’re here.” Yuri’s eyes are shut, his body going slack. Otabek could leave and Yuri would probably never know and not remember, but Otabek would know, so it’s not an option. The idea of lying to Yuri makes Otabek’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

And really, he really doesn’t want to leave Yuri alone like this anyway.

“Let me get my phone and my laptop,” he says. “I’ll come sit with you for a while. Yeah?”

“Okay.” Yuri rolls over onto his side, body curved like a parenthesis. “Hurry.”

“I will.” Otabek scurries out of the room and fetches his things, returning to find Yuri almost asleep, though he rouses a little when Otabek returns.

“Took too long,” he mutters. “Sit here.” Yuri pats the empty side of the mattress, next to him.

“Okay.” Otabek shuffles to the other side of the bed and carefully sits, trying not to jostle Yuri too much. “Do you want me to read to you?”

“Dmmph.”

Otabek translates that to  _yes_. He looks over at Yuri’s bookshelves. There’s manga, and some art books. He spies Harry Potter, but unfortunately it’s in Russian. Next to it, however, is an English copy of The Hobbit, so he fetches that and opens it to the first page:

_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

Yuri is asleep before Otabek even finishes the first sentence.

Now Otabek can survey his surroundings. Yuri’s room is small; the bed takes up most of it. There’s a bookshelf next to it, and where there aren’t books there are little anime figures — Otabek recognizes about half of them thanks to Tursanay's eternal obsession with Japan. There’s also Yuri’s Olympic gold medal, sitting on top of a dogeared copy of  _The Watchmen_. Otabek wonders for a moment if Yuri sleeps with it. He can’t imagine any other reason it’d be there.

On the walls are posters — K-pop bands, a tourist map of Kyushu, video game adverts. And then there’s a small poster — a page, really, cut out of a magazine — one of the Armani ads, featuring Otabek - shirtless - on the ice. It’s not up high with the other, larger posters, but stuck down low, next to the bookshelf, and right in Yuri’s line of sight when he’s lying in bed.

Otabek freezes and stares at the photo.

It could mean nothing. Yuri sends him a metric ton of selfies, but Otabek doesn’t often return the favor. And when he does they’re _artistic_ shots, his face wreathed in shadow, his profile against the sunrise. He knows it’s extremely pretentious, but he really does not like having his picture taken — even if he’s the one with the camera. His mother laments this constantly, and his sisters keep trying to take stealthy photos of him when he’s not looking. (They aren’t often successful; they’re not as sneaky as they think they are.)

So, perhaps this is Yuri making do with one of the only clear,  _good_ photos of his best friend that he can find. Perhaps that is all it is.

Or not.

Or it means  _everything_.

Otabek has no idea what to do.

By the time iftar comes around, Yuri’s been asleep for over twelve hours. Otabek slips out to get takeaway and eats kebab while watching Yuri —  _not at all creepy, Beka_ , says his inner voice, which (again) sounds a lot like Yuri.

When he’s done eating, he rings his mother. She picks up immediately.

“I’ve received zero photos from my only son,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “I am very disappointed in him.”

“Hello, Анам,” Otabek laughs quietly, so as not to disturb Yuri. “It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

“Yes, yes. How is my disobedient Beka?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Yuri is ill, though. He has a fever.”

“Oh, the poor little bee.” She clucks her tongue. Upon meeting Yuri the first time, she'd said privately to Otabek that he seemed very nice, and also  _full of bees_. It stuck. “Have you been looking after him?”

“Mm, he’s pretty helpless right now. I can’t even get him to shout at me for fussing over him too much. I hope I'm doing everything right, but that's why I called you."

"Are you keeping him warm and hydrated?"

"Yes. He's under a mountain of blankets and I've been giving him kvass and water."

"Keep him wrapped up, but you can put cold cloths on his forehead and neck. He's just going to have to let it run its course. Are you giving him paracetamol?"

"Ия. He seems to be better. His temperature was 39˚ when I checked, but his forehead is a little cooler than it was this morning.”

"I think you've got this, Beka. Keep doing what you're doing, it's the best that you can do for him. I'm sure he'll appreciate it once he's not dying anymore."

Otabek rolls his eyes. "Your vote of confidence is reassuring." He hesitates. “Анам…”

“What is it, darling?” Her voice is still light and cheerful, though there’s a hint of concern behind it now. “Is everything alright?”

Otabek squeezes his eyes shut. “Yura has a photo of me on his bedroom wall.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone. “Ah,” she says, and he can just picture her sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of chai at her hand, one of her medical journals open in front of her. “Well, then.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what it means.” Otabek glances over at Yuri, who hasn’t moved but the rise and fall of his chest is steady. “It’s not even a photo, Анам, it’s an advert from a magazine.”

“So, he did it very deliberately,” his mother says. “Well, my love, that’s really all there is to it, isn’t it?”

Otabek frowns. “What?”

“I think you know what to do, you’re just frightened of it.”

“I’m not— no,” says Otabek. “It might not mean that.”

“Or it might.” His mother’s voice sounds amused, now. “Otabek, my child, please just tell him and put us all out of our misery.”

“ _What._ ” Otabek pulls the phone away and stares at it for a moment before bringing it back to his ear. “Анам.”

“Really, darling. I thought you were together when he visited. Imagine my shock now to find out that you  _still_ have not got yourselves sorted out. I’ll have to cancel the wedding, pfah.”

Otabek sighs in exasperation. “I don’t know why I called you.”

His mother laughs. “Because you love me very much and you miss me and you value my opinion of your personal life.”

“It’s hard to  _have_ a personal life around you,” says Otabek. “I’m not doing it.”

“Then don’t come back to Almaty, because I do not want to have to look at your sad face for the rest of my life.”

“You are a terrible mother.”

“I’m the greatest mother! And now I have to go, the sun is nearly gone and I have to prepare food before people start biting each other. Darling,” she says, and she sounds suddenly serious. “I want to see you happy. Your little swarm of bees makes you very happy. Wouldn’t you like to see if you could both be even happier?”

“Or, I could lose him forever,” he says quietly. “I’d rather not.”

“That boy will not give you up, darling. I’m sure of it. Any messages for your sisters?”

“Tell them to stay away from my motorbike,” he says.

“I’ll pass on your love. Goodbye, балам.”

Otabek looks at his phone. His mother has always been nosy and confusing, but he knows he’s lucky for her. She’s never once judged him, or rejected him. She’s supportive and loving, and so is his father, and his four sisters. He’s lucky, so lucky, to have them behind him all the way.

He looks at Yuri.  _But luck runs out at some point_ , he thinks, and Yuri has dug himself into Otabek’s life so deep that imagining it without him makes his breath catch in his throat. He shakes his head  _no_ , he’s not going to think about it any more tonight.

Once his teeth are brushed and he’s changed into a shirt and shorts, he hesitates in the hall. He should go sleep on the sofa as he has been, but Yuri is still very weak and feverish, and Otabek is worried he might fall over if he tries to go to the toilet at some point. Sighing, he picks up his pillow and blanket and goes back to Yuri’s bedroom, settling in next to him. He might not sleep much, but at least he’ll be here if Yuri wakes up.

Yuri does wake up, once again at three in the morning. The movement beside him shakes Otabek into consciousness, and he sits up to see Yuri thrashing about, drenched in sweat, eyes open and wild.

“I can’t—“ Yuri tries to talk, but Otabek thinks his mouth is too dry for get his tongue around words. “Beka?”

“Here.” Otabek scoots closer. "Right here."

"What is happening to me?" Yuri sounds exhausted and disoriented. "Am I dying?"

“Your fever’s finally breaking, looks like.”

“Beka.” Yuri paws at him. “Make it go away.”

“It  _is_ going away.” Otabek catches one of Yuri’s hands in his. “I’m going to get you water. Okay?”

“No. No!” Yuri curls into him, pushing his face against Otabek’s chest. “Don’t leave. You keep  _leaving_.”

“Okay, okay.” There’s some kvass — probably warm by now — still in a glass by the bed. “Can you drink this, at least?” He tilts the glass to Yuri’s lips. “C’mon.”

Yuri manages a swallow of kvass before he pushes it away and rolls violently to the side, away from Otabek. “Fuck—“ He noses at his pillow, trying to find the cool side. “It’s so fucking  _hot_ , Beka.”

“Hold on." Otabek shoos the cats out of the room and shuts the door before he opens the window as wide as it will go. There’s a small fan on Yuri’s dresser that he grabs and plugs in by the bed. Yuri sighs as soon as the air hits his skin, scooting closer to the fan and, by proxy, Otabek. “Better?”

“Yes,” Yuri breathes. He rests his cheekbone against Otabek’s knee. “Спаси́бо."

“Ah, I was wrong, you probably are dying," Otabek says, smiling and daring to touch Yuri's damp hair, smoothing it away from his sweaty forehead. He pulls the blanket up around Yuri and tucks him in like a child. “You said ‘thank you.’”

“Shut up.” Yuri swallows hard. He’s starting to shiver. “Dammit,” he says, curling in on himself. “What the fuck.”

“Your fever is breaking, I said.” Otabek tilts the fan away. “It’s gonna be like this for a while.” He pulls more blankets from the end of the bed, picks up one draped over a chair in the corner, dumps them all on Yuri. “You have to stay warm. It’s going to suck, but you have to stay warm.”

“God, just kill me.” Yuri hides his face between the mattress and Otabek’s knee. “Beka, please.”

“I've been working very hard to keep you alive, so no.” He wraps Yuri up a little excessively and spreads a hand across his back. He can almost feel the notches of Yuri’s spine; even at nineteen, they’re still prominent.

“ _Please,”_ whines Yuri.

Otabek sighs. “I know it hurts, Yura. But it won’t hurt forever.”

“That is some  _bullshit_.” Yuri wheezes, writhing like a dying fish. “охуе́ть— Just take me to Emergency!”

“You have a  _fever_ , and it’s  _breaking_ ,” says Otabek, a little impatient. “All they would do is give you the same stuff I’m giving you. At least this way you can suffer in the comfort of your own home.” He pats Yuri on the back. “Do you want more kvass? Or water?”

“I want this fucking over with!” Yuri knocks Otabek’s hand away, kicks at him feebly and rolls over onto his back. The blankets are dark with sweat, and Otabek can only imagine that Yuri’s pajamas are completely soaked.

Yuri shivers violently as he tries to claw himself free. “It’s fucking— is it hot or cold?” he asks. “I can’t fucking  _tell_.”

“It’s both. Come on, sit up for a second.” He moves the blankets aside, guides Yuri upright just long enough to peel the t-shirt off of him and toss it to the floor. “Is that better?”

Yuri relaxes a little. “Yeah,” he says, with a long sigh of relief, pulling the blankets up and around himself again. “I just— can we have the fan?”

Otabek moves it back into place. Yuri leans against him, breathing hard but steady. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I ruined your visit.”

“No, you didn’t.” Otabek starts rubbing his back again. “I’m glad I was here, or you’d deal with this alone. Or worse,” he says, smirking, “it would be Victor looking after you, instead.”

Yuri groans and the shudder that goes through him has nothing to do with the fever. “In that case, thank fucking God you’re here.”

Otabek smiles. “How do you feel now?”

“Tired,” says Yuri. His voice is soft and subdued. He’s still twitching and sweat is pouring off of his forehead, but it seems like some of the fight has gone out of him. “I hate this.”

“I can tell.”

Yuri pokes him in the chest with one finger. “You’re a jerk, do you know that?” he says.

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“Some 'Hero of Kazakhstan’ you are. I’m going to post about this, that you’re cruel to the dead and dying. I'll send my fans after you — I once saw a pack of them eat a cow in less than three minutes.”

“Your imagination is an interesting place,” says Otabek. “I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of piranhas.”

“Same thing.” Yuri’s eyes fall shut and he groans. “My body hurts. All of it. My  _hair_ hurts.”

Otabek nods and rises from the bed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Yuri half-heartedly throws a pillow in his direction. It lands on the floor with a sad little huff.

“Asshole,” he says darkly. “Just— you’re coming back, okay?” He’s trying very hard to not sound needy, but he’s not very successful. “I’m…” He hesitates, then rolls into a pillow and mutters something into it. Otabek can’tquite decipher what he’s saying, but it sounds an awful lot like  _I’m scared,_ which Otabek has heard him say only once before, a little over a year ago, when Yuri’s grandfather was in hospital with pneumonia.

Otabek leaves him to whine into his pillow and quickly fetches a bowl of cool water and ice, a washcloth, and a large glass of cold kvass. When he returns, Yuri has rolled onto his back again, still wrapped in the blanket, legs akimbo and his arm flung over his eyes. His breathing is a little more labored, but Otabek is not really concerned — it’s probably from all the shouting.

“Here,” says Otabek, sitting on the bed again. He puts the bowl of water on the nightstand and dips the cloth in it, wringing it out. “How’s this?”

The moment the cloth touches Yuri’s sweaty forehead, he lets out a long, low moan that makes Otabek’s insides feel exactly like crashing to the ice after a poorly-timed jump. He has to close his eyes for a moment to center himself again.

At the same time, Yuri reaches up and grabs the cloth, unfolds it and drapes it over his entire face, like a mask.

“Oh my fucking God,” says Yuri, a little muffled. “I think I love you.” Otabek’s hands only shake a little, he’s proud of himself. “How— How did you  _learn_ this stuff?”

Otabek wets the cloth again and urges him to roll on his side so that Otabek can press it to the back of Yuri’s neck. “From my mother," he says. “She’s a doctor, remember? I called her while you were sleeping.”

“Oh, yeah.” Yuri hums. “You should be a doctor, too. Fuck physics.”

“I don’t really want to do medicine,” says Otabek, “I like space.”

Yuri looks at him for the first time since they’d woken up. “Do you want to be an astronaut?”

“Not really. I told you, I want to be an astronomer.” Otabek looks over at the open window. “You can’t really see stars in the city, but they’re there, and I like knowing that. I want to know all their names and how far away they are. I want to help put people on other planets. And I think we should go to the moon, again.”

Yuri stares at him. “You’re a fucking romantic,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. It sounds more like a realization. “You’re a space nerd, but you actually  _care_ about it. A lot.”

“Yeah.” Otabek dips the cloth in the water and gently dabs at Yuri’s forehead, his cheeks. “Close your eyes,” he says, and when Yuri does he covers them with the cloth. “Now lie down. I’m going to tell you about the sun.”

“Boring,” mumbles Yuri, “but okay.”

Otabek leans back and closes his own eyes, and begins to talk. “Stars come from nuclear fusion, hydrogen and helium, which is what makes them get bigger and glow. That’s what the sun is made of: hot plasma. The sun was formed about four billion years ago from gravitational collapse, and it’s technically classified as a G2V, but everyone knows it as a yellow dwarf.”

By the time Otabek gets around to stellar evolution, Yuri’s dead asleep. Otabek eases himself away, closes the window and allows the cats back into the bedroom. He considers the couch again, but he’s so tired that it’s all he can do to lurch across the room, crawl into bed, and pass out.

Outside, hot plasma burns the morning sky.


	7. Okay

Things change after that. Otabek never moves back to the couch, and his things migrate into Yuri’s bedroom almost overnight. Yuri excuses it as needing someone nearby in case he has a relapse ( _Yura, you watch too many K-dramas - Fuck you, Altin, I’m living my best life._ ) and Otabek reasons that despite all claims to the contrary, the couch isn’t really so comfortable when you have to sleep on it for a month. By unspoken agreement, they share the bed, and they never really talk about it.

They also don't talk about Otabek's photo on the wall, and after the first night, it disappears.

On the third night of their arrangement, Otabek rolls to his side and looks at the back of Yuri’s head, his hair like fine strands of moonlight across his pillow, and Otabek has to tell himself  _no, don’t be weird_ several times before the urge to touch it subsides.

He shifts onto his back again. He shuts his eyes and says a quick apology in his head, though it's not entirely clear who he's apologizing to - God, or Yuri - though it's likely both. (It's both.) Otabek starts to quietly panic, and it's only Yuri’s soft breathing beside him that eventually lulls him to sleep.

On the fifth morning, Yuri wakes before his alarm. His movement around the room as he gets ready rouses Otabek from sleep. After a few moments of deliberation, he decides to get out of bed as well, stretching a bit before hunting for clothes.

“Mmf.” Yuri appears in the doorway, talking around a toothbrush. “‘Grrlimgba?”

“Yes.” Otabek has no idea what Yuri is saying, but friendship with Yuri means saying ‘yes’ a lot. “Want to race? Go to the cinema later, winner’s choice?”

Yuri’s eyes widen. He darts into the washroom to spit out his toothpaste. There’s a brief sound of water running, and then a hollered “ _Try to catch me, loser!”_ followed by the thunder of footsteps down the hall. The front door slams shut.

“Ah, you—“ Otabek throws on whatever’s closest. He barely remembers to grab his skates and bag before he’s out the door and in the lift. Otabek knows he hasn’t got a chance of catching Yuri’s impossibly long legs, but he’d like to make an effort at least. Winning always makes Yuri feel good, but only if it's after an actual challenge.

He catches up to Yuri a block from the rink. Yuri’s not only there waiting, he's lounging on a park bench, all legs and leopard-print, when Otabek arrives.

“Took you too long.” Yuri’s paging through Instagram, feigning disinterest in Otabek. After a moment, he pockets his phone. "Let's go."

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Otabek huffs as he falls into step beside him.

“Uh, yeah I did,” says Yuri. He hefts his bag over his shoulder. “I am not going to win without seeing your face when I beat you. You should know that by now.”

“Says the kid who lost to me at Worlds.” Otabek nudges him with his elbow.

“Kid?!” Yuri shrieks like an eagle closing in on prey. He pokes him. “What the fuck is this  _kid_ crap?”

Otabek sighs. Oops. “Well, you're younger than me, and-"

“Are you suddenly forty? Because that would explain  _so much_.” Yuri shoves the rink doors open and stalks down the hall to the locker rooms. “Anyway, I won, and we’re going to see  _Black Widow_ tonight. Subtitled, thank God — dubs are shit.”

“I like English movies anyway.” Otabek plunks his bag down on a bench and kicks off his shoes. “I always learn something new.”

Yuri grins. “I learned how to swear in English from  _8 Mile_ ," he says as digs through his bag for his practice clothes. "I think it sounds better than Russian."

“Mine was  _The Big Lebowski,”_ says Otabek. “I was thirteen or something. Анам was so—" he coughs into his hand and despite his better efforts it's not at all subtle "—angry.”

Yuri stops what he’s doing and studies him. “Okay, I just figured out what's weird about you. You don't swear anymore,” he says. "I know it's a weird thing to notice but whatever, not the fucking point. You're not as bad as me, but I know you do it, I've heard you. In like four languages." He narrows his eyes. "Did your Мама make you stop or something?”

“No,” says Otabek. “Just, ah, you're not really supposed to.” He smiles a little at Yuri’s confusion. “It’s a Ramadan thing?” he offers, since that's what Yuri says whenever something he doesn't understand comes up,  _is it a Ramadan thing?_ It might offend someone else, but because Yuri always follows it with a demand for explanation, Otabek knows what it really means. It means that Yuri — a privileged white kid from a predominantly Christian country — is  _trying_. It's a lot more than some - a lot - of people would do. It makes Otabek feel warm and fond.

“Oh.” Yuri looks thoughtful. “What else can’t you do?”

“Just, bad behavior in general. Drinking, smoking, cursing—“ he ticks each vice off on his fingers "— sex. Stuff like that.”

“You— what?” Yuri sputters. “No sex? At all?”

“It’s definitely frowned upon, yes.” Otabek sits down to put his skates on. “It’s fine. I’m not seeing anybody, anyway. Not something I’ll miss.”

Yuri looks down at his own skates. “Oh,” he says. He’s quiet for a long moment, fumbling with the laces. “Is it bad for you that I swear a lot?”

“No,” says Otabek. “It doesn’t bother me, and funnily enough, this isn't actually about you.” He smiles.

“Jerk. But okay.” Yuri finishes tying his laces. He doesn't look at Otabek as they make their way to the ice, where Victor is waiting for them.

“Yurio!” Victor waves at them from the other side of the rink. He skates over, practically vibrating with energy. Otabek thinks Victor does not actually have a  _low_ or  _off_ setting; he’s always smiling, and he’s enthusiastic about  _everything._ Otabek had once found him singing a little song to himself while lacing up his skates. (He'd backed out of the locker room quickly and had spent the better part of a day trying to get Victor's melody out of his head.)

(It turned out to be a jingle for toothpaste.)

 _“That is still not my name_ ,” says Yuri, taking off his blade guards and stepping out onto the ice. “I was here  _first._ Call  _him_ Yurio.”

“He’s older than you,” sniffs Victor, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Yuri 2.0, perhaps?”

“Oh, for— Just shut up," says Yuri through clenched teeth. "For once in your life, just  _stop talking_.”

“How can I coach you if I can’t talk, my dear?” Victor claps his hands. “Let’s run through what we have of your short program, yes? Yes.” He gives Yuri a little shove. “Give me the first half, go on now!”

Yuri starts to say something, but after a moment he closes his mouth, and his face contorts into something unreadable. He skates off to center ice before anyone can say anything. He arranges himself into a pose that makes the most of his long, elegant limbs, arranging them around each other in perfect angles and curves. Otabek leans against the boards to watch.

The music (a piece Yuri had heard in a movie trailer,  _Fuck you, music is music. Okay, DJ Snob?_ ) begins, and Yuri instantly becomes a creature made all of grace and ferociousness. He'd forgotten to tie up his hair before practice so it trails behind him like comet dust, making him look otherworldly. He spreads his arms - again, Otabek thinks, like wings, as though they could carry him up and away. Otabek watches him soar and thinks about the word  _breathtaking_.

If this is what Yuri is doing with his off-season, they are all in a lot of trouble.

After about an hour of run-throughs, Victor skates over and settles in beside him.

“How much longer are you here, Otabek?” he asks, keeping an eye on Yuri’s swift, looping movements across the ice.

“Two and a half weeks,” says Otabek. “I’m going home for Eid.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” says Victor. “You know, I’d love to see that quad axel again,” he says, not even trying to keep the hope out of his tone.

“Sorry, no. I shouldn’t have done the one I did, but Yuri…”

“He’s hard to say no to," says Victor. “I never even knew you two were together. He never said anything.”

Otabek stills. "We aren't together," he says, voice flat. "I don't know why you think we are."

Victor smiles and taps his own lips with his index finger. “Ah, am I wrong? Oh, dear. Yuuri's always pestering me to think before I speak.” He doesn’t sound regretful at all.

“We’re not like that.” Otabek turns back to Yuri, watching him fly from one end of the rink to the other, fast and bright and mesmerizing. “We’re friends.”

“Ah.” Victor leans against the boards. “Would you like to be something else, perhaps?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Otabek frowns. “Why is it any of your business?”

Victor holds up his hands in surrender. “No, no. My apologies, my dear. I was just curious. Again, Yuuri keeps telling me to keep my nose out of other people's business, but I’m just concerned for our Yurio.”

“He hates that name, you know that, right?”

“Of course I do.” Victor grins. “ _Again!”_ he shouts to Yuri, who makes an furious sound but hauls himself to center ice and gets into starting position. “Mm. He skates so well when he’s angry. I can’t imagine what he might be like were he in love.”

Otabek doesn't have to be looking to know the sly expression Victor is wearing right now. He can  _feel_ it. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Why did you think we were like that?" he asks.

“Because I know what I’m looking at.” Victor adjusts his gloves. “Because you watch him the way I watch my Yuuri.”

Otabek goes still. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there,” he says evenly. “Yuri is my  _friend._ ”

“Yuuri was my friend before we became lovers,” Victor points out.

“He was your  _student_. He idolized you as a kid.”

“He was, and he did. But I genuinely liked him, and once he got to know me as more than a poster on the wall, we got to be friends.”

“And then you immediately got engaged.”

“Oh, that.” Victor flaps a hand at him. “I’m not saying you have to haul Yurio to the altar, but I do think you should give things a try.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Victor shrugs.

“I’m happy enough.” Otabek makes to step onto the ice and push off from the boards. He likes Victor, but he doesn’t like this conversation. “I don’t need more.”

Victor reaches out and catches Otabek’s wrist, all light fingers and iron grip.

“You want more, though,” he says quietly, kindly. “He is the brightest thing in your life and he thrives under your attention. He would do _anything_ for you."

Otabek shakes him off. “But what if you’re  _wrong_ ,” he blurts out. He instantly regrets his outburst; Victor looks triumphant. Otabek frowns and turns away. “I'm not admitting anything, but… What if you’re wrong?”

“You don’t think your friendship is strong enough to survive that?” Victor looks at him curiously.

“I…” Otabek sighs, rubs his face with his gloved hands. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“All right. Think about it, instead. I think it’s worth a try. Try just kissing him in surprise!” Victor grins. “Worked for me!”

Otabek says nothing to that. He skates away from Victor to his own little corner of the rink, out of Yuri’s way. He does a few lazy spins, hoping to clear his head, but Victor has a way of getting under your skin and  _staying there,_ and in Otabek’s case, it’s because despite his tendency to make a melodrama out of everything, Victor is _right_.

Before Otabek’s brain can run away with itself and the anxiety sets in, Yuri skates up to him and grabs his hand. “Mila says you could probably lift me. Wanna try?”

Otabek blinks and shakes his head. He looks at Yuri. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Serious like a heart attack. Show me those guns, Altin.”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “Are you determined to break every bone in your body?”

“I want to show you off!” Yuri pouts. “No one knows how fu— how freaking strong you are!”

Otabek frowns a little. "No, I don't want to drop you."

"You're not going to f— you're not going to  _drop me_." Yuri thumps him in the chest with his fist, but Otabek doesn't really notice. He's distracted; there's something weird about Yuri, but he can't quite figure out what it is.

"Beka!" Yuri snaps his fingers in front of Otabek's face, until Otabek pushes them away. "Come on, don't be a p— a wuss. You can do one of the easy lifts, okay?"

Otabek just keeps looking at him. _What_ is it? Yuri's frowns.

“Hey!” he says, irritated. "What's your problem?" 

“You were going to say something else just then," says Otabek. "But then you didn’t.”

“What? No, I wasn’t going to.” Yuri’s cheeks go pink. He scowls at the floor. "Don't be weird."

“I heard you. You started to curse and then you stopped.” Otabek squeezes his hand.  _He would do anything for you_.  _He invited you to Russia. Bought you dates at midnight. The bathroom ready-made for Luba. The rescue from Victor after the jump. Telling Katsuki you're "amazing". The magazine advert on the wall. Sharing the bed. Trying not to curse because you can't._

"Are you doing it for me?” he asks. Yuri makes an exasperated noise.

“Fine, whatever, maybe. So what?” He tugs on Otabek’s hand. “Come on, just come  _lift_   _me_.”

Otabek kisses him instead.

The sounds of the rink fall away and there's only a weird rushing sensation in Otabek's ears. His heart is racing but he feels like it could come to a complete stop at any moment. Yuri’s lips are thin and cold and very still. Otabek immediately begins to panic and pull away, but then Yuri opens his mouth and kisses back ferociously, scrabbling at him with desperate hands.

Yuri pulls back first. His face is bright red, the skin around his lips irritated by stubble-burn. “You fu— How long has  _this_ been going on?” He jabs Otabek in the chest, over his heart. "How long?"

“I don’t know.” Otabek hugs Yuri to him, fully expecting to be shoved away. Yuri must  _hate_ that this is happening in public. “Please.”

“Please  _what_?” Yuri wraps his arms around Otabek’s neck and pulls him even closer. “I already kissed you back. What else do you need? I obviously like you. Please  _what_.”

Otabek smiles into Yuri’s hair. It _is_  as soft as it looks. “Nothing. This is good. I just… didn't expect this.”

“Well, you're a moron. Anyway, can we go do  _this_ somewhere else?” Yuri does push him off, but gently. “I think Victor is about to explode into hearts and stars or some sh— stuff.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” says Otabek. "I told you the cursing had nothing to do with you."

“Shut up, I’m gonna try anyway. I’m probably going to f— screw up. Wait, is  _that_ okay to say?" Yuri flaps his arms feebly. "I don't know how to do this right."

“You’re unbelievable.” Otabek stares at him in amazement. He wants to kiss him again. Is he allowed to do that, now? He might be. He's still too dizzy with astonishment that Yuri had _kissed back,_ and apparently Yuri wants to do it _again_. He reaches out and touches Yuri's cheek, hand trembling only a little. Yuri closes his eyes at the contact and leans in.

From across the rink there’s a shriek of delight.

Otabek follows Yuri’s gaze to Victor, and Otabek has never really understood the  _hearts-in-eyes_ thing until now. Victor is literally vibrating with happiness, Katsuki struggling to hold him in place.

It's time to go.

“Yeah, we're out.” Yuri pulls Otabek to the boards and off the ice. There are sad noises from behind them, weak protests that practice has barely started, but they don’t turn around. They rush away, Yuri gripping Otabek's wrist tightly and pulling him through the halls.

In the locker room they sit across from each other and unlace their skates. Otabek glances up at Yuri and meets his eyes, and they grin and try to pay attention to what they’re doing. It’s not working. Otabek keeps looking up, and Yuri’s always looking back.

“Right,” says Yuri, the fifth time he gets caught staring. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go home and talk about this.”

Otabek nods. “Okay.” He tries to say it with conviction. He does sneak one more glance at Yuri and finds him actually focusing on his laces, so Otabek takes the hint and gets to work.

Finally, they’re free of their skates and they’ve hoisted their bags over their shoulders. “Let’s take the tram,” says Yuri. “It’s faster.”

He takes Otabek’s hand and tangles their fingers together, and somehow it's different than all the other times Yuri's held his hand. For a moment, Otabek can’t breathe.

“You okay?” Otabek looks. Yuri’s staring at him, eyebrow raised. He grips Otabek’s hand tightly. “Beka?”

Otabek eventually manages to catch his breath, in and out. Again. And again.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing back. He smiles at Yuri. “I’m okay.”


	8. (Not) Talking

 

They barely make it into the flat before Yuri drops his bag and yanks Otabek’s out of his hand. He dumps it on the floor and backs Otabek up against the door, bracketing him with his arms. He’s still a couple of inches shorter than Otabek, but he’s no less intimidating, with a downright predatory gleam in his eyes.

“I thought we were going to talk.” Otabek reaches out and touches Yuri’s chest through his shirt. He can feel Yuri's heart beating wildly against his ribs, and he's pleased to know that despite putting on a brave front, Yuri is just as affected by all of this as he is.

“Talk  _later,”_ says Yuri. “Now that you’ve got your head out of your ass, I am not wasting time  _talking_ when we could be  _making out_.”

Otabek shakes. “We  _should_ , though—” he says, protesting weakly. Yuri rolls his eyes and drops his hands to the back of Otabek’s neck, drawing him down into a kiss. Otabek goes willingly, parting his lips and searching for the the warmth of Yuri’s mouth. In Otabek's mind nothing will ever top the first kiss, on the ice, but this is a worthy follow-up.

They make no move away from the door, content to lean against it, kissing slowly. Otabek’s got both hands on Yuri’s hips, Yuri’s got one in Otabek’s hair and the other palming his face. They’re lazy about it, despite what Yuri said about not wasting time he seems perfectly content to kiss Otabek long and carefully, drawing Otabek’s breath right out of his lungs. Otabek feels dizzy and his legs aren't entirely steady; he’s glad for the door at his back keeping him upright, though if this goes on he will need to sit down soon.

“Yura,” he says, pulling away but touching their foreheads together. “I didn't think you'd, ah..." 

“Yeah, me too, I didn’t think—" Yuri shakes his head. "Oh, this is  _stupid_ ," he says in exasperation. "Okay, so neither of us could get it together long enough to figure out that we liked each other. Now we’ve figured it out, hooray, everybody’s happy. There, done? More kissing now?” He leans in, but Otabek pokes him in the chest. Yuri pulls back, sputtering. “ _Now_ what?”

Otabek touches Yuri’s chin with two fingers. “You should know that I love you.” It's a hard thing to say out loud; he's been saying it inside his own head for over a year and translating it into spoken words is terrifying — and exhilarating. It's a risky thing, but all things considered, Otabek is feeling a lot braver than usual. "I have, for a while now."

Yuri's eyes widen; he looks completely startled, and Otabek hopes he hasn’t just sunk this ship before it’s had a chance to sail. 

“Really?” says Yuri

“Of course I do,” says Otabek. He threads his fingers in Yuri’s soft, soft hair. “Sorry, that’s probably a lot. I've had more time with this than you have.”

“ _Don't_ tell me how I feel, Beka, just—“ Yuri tilts his head and studies Otabek’s face. “You really  _love_ me? You mean that. You love me."

Time slows. Otabek is eight years old again. He’s holding Luba, his beautiful bird, in his hands. The window is open and she’s singing her freedom song. Everything stills.

Yuri’s gaze is as sharp as her beak was, as her talons when they would dig into his skin. Otabek thinks of the way he propels his body through the air, the way he doesn’t so much as jump as  _lift off_ , ascending into the air as though it offers him something that the ground doesn’t. Like he's content to rise, rise, rise, out into the atmosphere, to spin out into space.

 _Will this be too much for him?_ Otabek wonders. The window is open. Yuri’s hair feels like feathers against his fingers. His own heartbeat in his ears sounds like the beating of wings. _He’s young, we are young, how do I know for certain?_

He asks himself that question over and over again, has done for over a year, and every time the answer is the same:  _I just know_.

Otabek swallows hard and drops his hand to Yuri’s shoulder, squeezing maybe a little too tightly.

“Yeah,” he says, softly but firmly. "I do."

Yuri stares at him, bewildered.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. He sounds a little smug. “That’s fine.”

“ _Fine?”_ Otabek frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know if I feel _that_ way yet,” says Yuri. He runs his hands over Otabek’s biceps and grins, bites his lower lip in blatant delight. “I mean, I _do_ feel- like, I mean - it's different. For now. I don't know what it is. Pretty psyched to find out."

He presses his hand against Otabek's heart. "That alright with you?" he asks with a sideways grin. "It’s gonna be fun.”

At this, Otabek's frown melts away. It actually hurts, he’s smiling so wide. “It’s okay with me," he says. "I never thought I’d get even this.”

“What are you even  _doing_ with your face?” Yuri pokes his cheek. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

"You'll get used to it." Otabek draws him close and kisses his forehead, because he  _can do that now_. “I’m probably going to be really irritating for a little while.”

“Oh no.” Yuri pulls back, looking at him. “Like, are we talking Mila-levels of irritating? Or Katsudon?” He makes a face.

“Yes,” says Otabek. “Maybe even Victor-levels.”

“Fuck— Sorry— Just,  _no_.” Yuri shakes his head. “I’m not going to date you if you’re going to turn into  _that_.”

“I did fly to Russia to see you and then kiss you on the ice.”

Yuri looks stricken.

“It worked for him?” says Otabek, only a little sheepish.

Yuri growls and shoves him against the door again, stepping close as if to kiss him again. At the last moment he pulls back. “Shit. Wait. I just had a thought, we— are you allowed to kiss me?”

Otabek shrugs. “Yes? Maybe. Huh. I actually, uh, don’t know." He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I should know, I'm sure my parents told me, but it's, ah, never really come up before.”

"Well find out, because if I’m being cockblocked by a religious holiday, I’d like to know about it. I’m not gonna get you in trouble or whatever.”

“I’m pretty sure what you just said is blasphemy.” He pulls Yuri back to him and noses at the top of his head. “And I won’t get  _in trouble_ , I'm not five. I’ll just ask Анам and she will tell me. It's not hard.”

He goes still.

His mother.

 _Oh no_.

“She’s going to be  _thrilled_ ," he says with a wince.

“What? Why."

“She’s the first one who said to me to ‘just tell him already.’” Otabek sighs and lifts one hand to rub his eyes. “She thought we were already together when you visited.”

“Oh my God.” Yuri buries his face in Otabek’s chest. “Well, of course she did — I was so  _obvious_ , how the hell did you  _not_ pick up on it?”

“Wasn’t looking for it,” says Otabek, rubbing Yuri’s back. “Didn’t know it was there to be seen. I assumed it was just me.”

“You assumed wrong, obviously." Yuri looks incredulous. "I mean, I'm only nice to  _you_."

"I thought that was just us being friends," says Otabek.

"Friends don't stare at friends in the locker room showers."

Otabek's eyebrows go up. "Really?"

"You have a great ass," says Yuri dismissively. "But that's not all I did. I send you selfies all the time! I'm nice to your cat! I  _know_ you saw the picture on my wall, you pretended not to but I'm not stupid. And I cook for you sometimes — I don't even cook for  _Grandpa_."

"You said he complains about your cooking," Otabek points out.

"He complains about everything." Yuri sighs, exasperated. "Your  _mother_ figured it out, Beka! From one two-week visit!" He looks up at Otabek, and he can’t believe the look in Yuri’s eyes, like Otabek is some kind of treasure he wants to hoard. "And Victor, probably."

"Yeah, he did."

"God, he's going to be impossible now." Yuri shakes his head. "You  _had_ to be a _romantic_."

"He told me you would do anything for me," says Otabek, pressing his lips to Yuri's temple. He can't get enough of touching him, after so much time spent wanting. "And then you did."

"Mmf." Yuri's embarrassed, Otabek can tell. Yuri runs a hand through his hair and lets it fall around his face, his usual tactic for hiding when he's feeling awkward. “ _Anyway_ ," he says. "Victor’s probably too overjoyed to call me back to practice today. Let’s just stay in and watch dumb movies and make out some more. Nothing else, I know you can't, I mean- Ugh, just." 

Otabek takes him by the shoulders. "Breathe."

"More kissing," says Yuri. "That was cool."

Otabek smiles. "Sounds great."

Yuri happily drags him to the couch and turns on the TV. He pushes Otabek down and climbs on him, arranging himself in his lap. "I'm gonna find something good to not watch while you text your Мама," he says. It's not a request.

"Got it," says Otabek, pulling out his phone. Yuri laughs at him, and Otabek knows that melody by heart.

_This is the blessing repaid._

—end—

**Author's Note:**

> I'm annathaema over at Tumblr and my YOI sideblog is sparklyicehusbands. Comments and kudos are appreciated SO much. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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